Small World
by applejack00
Summary: Part 2 of 4, in which Francis and Antonio make a bet, Lovino is confused, Arthur is annoyed, and Feliciano and Ludwig begin to act very strangely around each other...
1. 1,1

**a/n: Okay, like it says in the summary, I'm planning this as a four part story, featuring the following pairings: Roderich/Vash, Gilbert/Elizaveta, Feliciano/Ludwig, Lovino/Antonio, Francis/Arthur, Alfred/Ivan, Toris/Feliks, Yao/Yong Soo, Herakles/Kiku. I'm kind of nervous about trying to write a fic longer than two chapters (lol, sad but true) but what the heck, I love all these pairings so much it's worth a shot. Each part will probably be around three chapters, although part one is looking like it might be four. I apologize in advance for my inconsistent writing style OTL**

* * *

Gilbert had never been what one might call a particularly patient person. Everything he did, he did expecting instant gratification.

Needless to say, waiting five minutes for Elizaveta to answer her goddamn door was not sitting well with him.

"Lizzie!" he'd hollered for a few minutes. "Lizzie it's me, it's Gilbert, now open up! C'mon! It's me!"

Now he was sitting on the stone steps leading up to the door and leaning hoarsely against the rail. Just as he began to contemplate kicking the door down, Elizaveta appeared on the sidewalk, emerging from her car with a look of exasperation on her face.

"Hi, Gil," she said wearily as he bounced to his feet.

"Oh, hey Liz," he said with a sneer. "Good of you to show up."

"Maybe if you called ahead like a normal person we wouldn't have this problem," she snapped, unlocking the door. She led him down a hallway filled with stuffy, ancient-looking paintings and portraits, and into the old-fashioned sitting room, one corner of which was occupied by a gleaming grand piano. Gilbert immediately crossed the room to shut the lid on it, concealing the ivory keys from sight. He turned back to Elizaveta, who had curled up on one of the couches.

"So where were you?"

"Dropping Roderich off," she replied. "I'd have thought you might have figured that one out, seeing as he teaches the same time every single day - "

"I have better things to do than keep track of what your dork-ass hubbie does," Gilbert said scornfully.

"Don't call him that," Elizaveta warned.

"I'll call him what he is."

"Why did you come here, Gil?" she said coldly. "To insult my husband?"

"No. Well. No, not really."

"So what then? You never have a good reason."

"Well, it is kind of about your husband." This had seemed like a much better idea back at his apartment, in front of his mirror. Strutting and smirking, he had intimidated himself plenty. But Elizaveta did not appear to be cowed.

"Spit it out."

"Uh." Gilbert cleared his throat, tensed his legs in preparation for flight if necessary. "I think you should ditch him."

Elizaveta raised a derisive eyebrow. "Oh, really? And why should I do that?"

"Well, don't you think you could do better?" Gilbert forged ahead, still bracing himself for a blow. "I mean, he's boring, he's not a fun guy, he's so not your type - "

"What, you think you know my type? You think you can find me someone better than Roderich?" She had that dangerous, frying-pan glint in her eyes.

"_I'm _better than him!" he exclaimed.

She stared.

"You?" she managed finally. She laughed shrilly. "You. Really?"

"Yes, really," Gilbert said defensively.

"You're crazy," she said dismissively. "Why would I, or anyone in their right mind, choose you? Over him?"

"Well, why would you choose him in the first place?" Gilbert demanded. "He's a shitty husband. He doesn't love you, doesn't even care about you. Doesn't even know you!"

Elizaveta paused at Gilbert's furious tone, but only for a moment. "He does care about me."

"He doesn't!" Gilbert yelled, forgetting his escape plan and striding closer. "Are you really this blind? He doesn't even look at you! D'you think I haven't noticed? I have eyes, I can see how hurt you are! You can do better! You can have me!"

"Yeah, and you're so much better," Elizaveta snarled, "you conceited, arrogant little SHIT. How dare you barge in here and just ASSUME you can - "

"But I'm right, aren't I?" he retorted. "You're unhappy."

"I'm happy," she said automatically. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Gilbert gazed at her for a moment. "He doesn't look at you," he said quietly, his usually abrasive voice becoming gentle in an almost frightening way. "Doesn't smile for you. When you take his hand he takes it right back. When you hug him he recoils. You just drive him around places, you're like his chauffeur! And you call him darling. You call him sweetheart. He calls you Elizaveta. Eliza-freaking-veta! Not even Eliz, or Liz, or Lizzie. Elizaveta. Like you're strangers. He really doesn't know you, and doesn't want to. He doesn't kiss you, probably doesn't make love to you - "

But here Gilbert stopped. Elizaveta's eyes had filled with angry, sparkling tears.

"I - I didn't come here to make you cry," he said haltingly. "I just want you, Liz. I want you to be mine and not his and it's not really that selfish, is it, because you'll be happier with me, right?"

She shook her head, wiped the corners of her eyes. "Everything is complicated, Gil, too complicated for you to understand. Even if I wanted to be with you, and I don't, there's no way I could. This marriage is really important to my family."

"And you're really important to me," Gilbert said fiercely. "We can keep it a secret, we can figure something out! I'm serious about this. I won't be denied something I've waited so long for - "

"I won't either!" Elizaveta shouted. "This marriage - this life - it's not something I can throw away lightly! It's what I've worked towards! It's not just about me and Roderich, okay? It's about the Edelsteins and the Hedervarys, and I can't mess it up! My family worked for too long and too hard to give me the chance to live like this. I'm not going back to the old days, Gil."

"So this house full of expensive shit, it's worth your being miserable," Gilbert said bitterly.

"It's more than just that," she sighed. "I told you, you can't understand."

"Whatever." Gilbert knew, for once, that he was fighting a losing battle. "All I know is that you're wasting away here, Liz, when you could be out living life with me. And one day when you and precious Roddy have grown old and miserable together, you'll finally realize you how much your life sucks because you'll be sick and tired of waking up every day and having to see his face. But don't come crying to me when that happens, Liz, because I'll just say I told you so."

He strode to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside, turning back to call angrily down the hallway, "Tell your good-for-nothing aristocrat of a husband he can suck my balls!" and then slamming the door.

Well that didn't go quite as he'd hoped.

...

Roderich loved the piano. He loved the feel of the keys beneath his fingers, loved hearing the melodies he created through simple touches. It was pure magic, this sensation; he always had and always would love it.

But he did not love children. They were whiny, unpleasant creatures. He remembered all too well the day, thirteen years ago, that he had been forced to take Feliciano under his protection. The memory brought an involuntary frown to his face. These children, the ones he taught (or attempted to teach) were no better. Every day as he left the studio, he felt a wave of relief, felt the ache in his head lessen a little. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he hated his job.

He had landed it one year previously, shortly after releasing his sixth CD of classical music. The album had done so well that he had decided to quit his job at his uncle's firm. His family had protested, insisting that, because he was soon to be married, he would have to maintain a steady income. Still, he refused to return to work for his uncle, so he grudgingly sought a new profession. It just so happened that the piano studio near his house was looking for new teachers, and would be delighted to hire the acclaimed Roderich Edelstein. He hadn't liked the idea of teaching young children, but at least it wasn't an office job.

And then he'd been married. Though he and Elizaveta were quite well off and could have relied on his parents for financial aid at any time, she'd insisted that he keep working, just for her own peace of mind. So here he was. Standing outside of the studio, watching the brats scamper off to their parents' waiting cars, pulling his navy blue coat tightly around himself and trying to suppress the resentment he was feeling at his wife right now.

His cell phone rang, and he felt a mixture of irritation and satisfaction when he saw that it was Elizaveta.

"Hello?"

"Honey, I'm so sorry! I just realized I should have left five minutes ago - I'm just walking out the door right now - I'll be there soon, okay?"

"It's fine," he said curtly. "I'll see you in a few."

"Okay. Bye."

He hung up.

"Pah," he muttered. "I wonder what kind of excuse she'll give this time for being late." He turned his phone over in his hand a few times. "Well . . . as long as I have the time . . . I might as well . . ."

He dialed, hung up, and then dialed again. As he pressed the phone to his ear, listening to the ringing, he told himself he was being ridiculous. "He won't pick up. He hasn't for over a week now. You might as well give up."

Just as he was about to hang up, he heard a loud beeping from behind him. There, not ten yards away, a man with shoulder length blond hair was standing, one hand buried in his sweatshirt pocket, the other holding a ringing cell phone, at which he was directing a heavy glare. For a moment he seemed to be on the verge of answering it, but then he shook his head vigorously and continued walking in Roderich's direction.

"Vash," he said softly. The blond looked up with a start, and for a moment his steps faltered. Then he continued walking, doubling his pace.

"Please stop ignoring me." Roderich hurried over to the other man and grabbed his arm. "I'm trying to talk to you - "

"And I'm trying not to think about you," Vash retorted, snatching his arm back. "So please leave me alone."

"I'll leave you alone now if you promise we can talk later," Roderich insisted.

"What's there to talk about?" Vash spat.

"You know what there is," Roderich said, his voice shedding a layer of its practiced gentility.

"Well what do you expect me to say?" Vash snapped. "'Last Thursday was fun, let's do it again sometime'?"

"More or less," Roderich said quietly.

Vash was silent for a moment. Roderich released his grip on the green-clad arm, and Vash turned his back to him. Roderich knew the other man was blushing.

"You were gone a long time," Vash said finally.

"I know."

"I missed you. Hated you, too. Hated you for making me miss you," he continued.

"I'm sorry - "

"But I got over it. I told myself, a friend like that, a friend who makes you feel so horrible, that's not a friend worth having. Since you were gone anyway, it wasn't hard to pretend you'd never existed." Vash exhaled. "When you came back, it was just like I'd expected. You weren't the you I knew. You were just this filthy little _aristocrat_, a plaything, a tool of your family's."

"Vash - "

"So," Vash raised his voice, "I just kept on denying your existence to myself. Told myself that I didn't miss having you as a friend. That I wasn't upset when you were married. That your life was no concern of mine."

Roderich said nothing. The crisp air swirled around them, kicking up a few leaves. He wondered if that was the slightest sniffle he heard - but no, it must be the dry leaves scuffing the pavement.

"I felt stupid last Thursday," he said at last, his voice hard. "Stupid and humiliated at how easily you came to me and made things be normal. For that one day, it was like we could go back to how it was, and everything would be just fine. And I was okay with that. I was willing to take back all those years of hating you, and acknowledge your presence."

"So why - "

"Why am I acting like it never happened?" Vash snapped. "Because that's what I thought before last Thursday was over. By Friday I changed my mind."

"Wait a moment," Roderich protested. "You can't have had any objections to what took place between Thursday and Friday. I know you wanted it just as much as I did."

"Yeah. But after that, friendship's not an option anymore. I can't settle for friendship. I want more from you."

"That's why I'm _saying_ - "

"But you're married. You have a wife. And as long as she's in the picture, there can never be a repeat of last Thursday." Vash turned around, eyes fierce. "Ever."

"Vash, you, _you _are in the picture!" Roderich exclaimed. "My picture. She's not - as far as you're concerned, she's not in the picture at all."

"But when I'm not there she is," Vash said. "And I can't accept that."

"So - what - are you suggesting I leave my wife?" Roderich asked despairingly.

"My, and here I thought you were too stupid to tie your own shoelaces. You catch on pretty quick."

"You know I can't leave her."

"I know."

"So what are you saying? In case you've somehow forgotten our conversation from last week, let me remind that I don't love her. She means nothing to me. You have no reason to be jealous."

"I won't be with you while you're still married to her," Vash said obstinately. "And you won't leave her. So we can't be together. Which is why I was trying not to think about you!"

"You're being unreasonable."

"I am not! Just because I won't allow you to cheat on your wife, just because I want a monogamous relationship, I'm being unreasonable? You're the one who married someone you don't love!"

"You know why I did it. And it wasn't because I wanted to."

"But you still did it."

"Vash, please. I want to be with you. You want to be with me. There's no reason - "

"I've told you the condition for being with me. I don't think we have anything more to say to each other until you meet it." He made to walk away.

"Vash! Love is not conditional!" Roderich cried, seizing his arm again.

"Mine is," Vash replied, prying Roderich's long fingers loose. "I can't love you unless you're completely mine."

As he left, Roderich sighed. Vash had always been like this, hadn't he? Unrelentingly stubborn. Completely, unchangeably contrary. Loud, hostile, and demanding.

Yet, poor fool that he was, Roderich couldn't help loving him.

* * *

**a/n: Yeah, that's chapter one. Feel free to review and crit! Feedback is a nice thing.**

**Oh, but this isn't gonna be one of those "I'm not writing another chapter until I get x amount of reviews," because I accept that not many people review my stuff and I'm okay with that, lol. This is really for my own amusement. I'm going to try to keep going with it until the end :)**


	2. 1,2

**a/n. whee I got some positive feedback! Cool beans. Okay, so here's chapter 2, not a whole lot happens but please bear with me OTL**

* * *

"I have a find for you." Francis sat, legs crossed, at the foot of Gilbert's bed, his voice as smooth as his silk, collared shirt.

"Yeah?" Gilbert was curled up beneath his covers, nibbling on a stick of string cheese. It was eight o'clock in the morning, far too early for Francis to be here. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Francis said impatiently, "you want to get with Elizaveta, don't you?"

Gilbert sat bolt upright, his string cheese forgotten.

"I have uncovered something that may be enough to bring an end to her marriage."

"What is it?" Gilbert asked eagerly.

Francis extracted a packet of glossy photos from his shirt. "Take a look at these."

Shuffling through them quickly, Gilbert saw that the photos were of mostly the aristocrat bastard, with a little of that gun-crazy Zwingli punk mixed in.

"So he was hanging out with some guy, so what? How is this supposed to end their marriage?"

"Keep going," said Francis with a smirk.

Okay, there was Edelstein sitting with Zwingli in a dimly lit restaurant. Nothing unusual about that.

Edelstein eating a forkful of veal. Still normal.

Zwingli reaching across the table to wipe Edelstein's mouth with his napkin.

Edelstein holding Zwingli's hand to his face. Zwingli blushing furiously.

"Um . . ."

"Keep going. It's getting good."

Edelstein and Zwingli leaving the restaurant.

Edelstein and Zwingli getting into a cab.

Edelstein and Zwingli . . . _kissing _in the back of the cab? The picture was shot from behind and through the murky window of the car, but there it was: the clear silhouette of two heads locked at the lips.

"What the fuck?"

"There's more."

Edelstein and Zwingli stumbling out of the cab, still clinging to each other.

Edelstein regaining his composure, smoothing the front of his coat. Zwingli covering his face.

The two of them entering a cheap motel.

The remaining photos looked like they'd been printed from a hidden camera - all from exact same angle, seemingly from a corner of a motel room's ceiling, they were of low, gritty quality, and not as detailed as the previous ones had been. Still, they properly conveyed what had taken place in that room that night, and Gilbert didn't bother going through them one by one.

"Holy shit."

"I know." Francis collected the photos back into a neat stack and secured them with a rubber band. "Now think how easy it will be for Elizaveta to blackmail her husband into a divorce with these."

* * *

Elizaveta awoke on Saturday morning to the sound of Mozart. She turned over onto her side with a frown. She was used to Mozart, of course, but she knew that Roderich was upset. When she'd picked him up yesterday afternoon he'd been reserved - more so than usual - and hadn't said a word until after dinner. And even then it had only been, "My tea is not going to pour itself."

She'd already been on edge because of Gilbert's visit, and had snapped back that he was right, that he might as well just pour the damn tea and be done with it because she was sick of his sulky behavior and was going to bed. He'd said nothing. And then, when he'd come to the bedroom hours later, she'd pretended to be asleep. Not that he'd cared. He'd just lain down silently beside her and dropped off to sleep immediately.

Now, she knew, he was playing to clear his head. And as Mozart's melodies drifted up the stairs, she wondered what exactly could have happened at Friday's lesson to make him this distressed.

Before she could think too deeply on it, however, her cell phone rang. She had a feeling she knew who it was, and sure enough: "Gilbo" was flashing on her screen. She considered ignoring it, but she knew that Gilbert was persistent enough that it was in her best interests to answer it now and save time.

"Gil?"

"Hi, Liz. I'm calling."

"Yeah, I figured that out. What do you want?"

"Oh, you said to call before I come over. Remember? So I'm calling. And now I'm coming over. Tell your husband."

He hung up.

Elizaveta sighed. She really didn't know what she had done in a past life to deserve the unshakable Gilbert as a friend (friends? Was that what they were?), but, she reasoned, Gilbert must have done something just as bad for all the beatings she'd given him over the years.

Gilbert's problem, she reflected, was that he didn't know when to stop. He didn't recognize limits. He'd latch onto an idea and ride with it until reality inevitably arrived and knocked him down. Even when it became clear that it was time to back down, he never did. He wasted a lot of time on all-or-nothing gambles. More often than not, he got nothing.

This on top of the fact that he was really, inherently stupid made for an incredibly unfortunate individual.

Yet . . .

Elizaveta couldn't help but be drawn in by his confident grin every time. She'd go along with him just to see how things played out, following the sheer bravado in his eyes. He'd usually crash and burn, but he did it with intensity.

Yesterday, though, he hadn't had that same self-assurance. There had been a different fire in his eyes.

She shook her head in an attempt to clear her mind. Her world had been thrown a little out of balance yesterday, but with any luck it would be restored today.

The doorbell rang.

Mozart ceased to flow.

Elizaveta cursed, pulled on a sweater, and hurried to get the door, arriving at the foot of the stairs just as Roderich was pulling open the door and Gilbert was strutting in.

"Yo, Roddy," Gilbert was saying loudly. "How's it hangin'?"

"I am doing well," Roderich said stiffly. "I won't bother to ask how you are. I know you'll only start complaining and blaming me for your problems."

"Actually, I'm doing really good right now," Gilbert said. Elizaveta knew Roderich wanted nothing more than to correct Gilbert's grammar, but he didn't, and Gilbert kept talking. "How about you, Liz? You doing okay today?"

"I'm fine, Gil. Why are you here?" she said curtly.

"Oh, no reason . . . just wanted to announce the _devastating demise _of your marriage!" He cackled loudly, that reckless fervor flaring in his eyes.

There was a pause.

"What are you talking about?" Roderich asked flatly. "Please stop spouting nonsense."

"Yes, do explain," Elizaveta said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I think I'll let these pictures do the talking," he said, brandishing a thick yellow envelope at them.

Roderich took the envelope and walked calmly to the sitting room. "Let's discuss this over here, please. Gilbert, if you'd care to explain yourself in a civilized manner then there will be no need for these pictures, whatever they are - "

"If you look at these pictures there'll be no need for me to explain in any kind of manner," Gilbert sneered. "Look." He emptied the envelope's contents onto the coffee table.

Elizaveta leaned forward. What were these photos? There was Roderich - it was as though someone had followed him around all day snapping pictures - but - ? What was Vash Zwingli doing there? Heart racing, she spread them out more fully. There was Roderich's day, fully documented in photos. His day with Vash. And then - his night with Vash.

For a moment, her heart seemed to stop. Then Gilbert's laugh was echoing in her ears and she looked up to see him, arms crossed, watching her husband with gleeful triumph. Roderich was reddening steadily, his eyes glued to the floor.

It was strange. There was no doubt in her mind that her husband had been utterly unfaithful, that their marriage was, as Gilbert had crowed, doomed, and that her life was about to take a turn for the worse.

So why couldn't she get over how _hot _those pictures were?

"This . . . this is really you?" she whispered, clutching one of the photos from the motel room.

"Yes." Roderich's voice was barely audible, and he closed his eyes in shame.

"I never thought . . . never imagined . . ." she trailed off.

"That I'd be gay?" Roderich said bitterly.

"That you'd bottom!" Elizaveta exclaimed.

Gilbert howled.

"Give me those!" Roderich exclaimed.

"Oh, no no no," Elizaveta said hastily, "these are mine." She gathered all the photos back into the envelope and clutched it to her chest. "We can't have you destroying the evidence, now can we?"

"W - what exactly are you going to do with them?" Roderich asked fearfully.

"Use them as blackmail, duh," Gilbert interjected. "If you don't get a divorce, she'll reveal them to the world, or worse - your family."

"You wouldn't." Roderich's formerly beet-red face went pale.

"I won't," Elizaveta promised, "if we have a nice, clean break."

"So you . . ." he began, shooting her a furtive look. "You're not . . . angry with me?"

"How can I be angry?" She waved the envelope. "If you weren't so good looking it might be a different story."

Roderich huffed.

"And let's be honest. You and I, we were never in love, were we? You were coerced by your parents, who were after my family's influence. I was pushed by my parents, who were after your family's money." She sighed. "I won't pretend this is going to be easy, but in the end, it's better if you end up with someone you really love."

"So you're . . . supporting me and Vash?"

"D'you support me and Liz?" Gilbert asked aggressively.

"There _is _no me and you!" Elizaveta said scornfully.

"Oh, come on. He's gay! There's proof that he cheated on you. You just agreed to separate. And all thanks to me."

"So?"

"So you're single! I'm single! Come on, Liz!"

"I'm not leaving Roderich to be with you," she scoffed. "I'm doing this for his happiness, not yours."

"Oh, please." Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "Just try denying that you want me. You want this body. You've spent a year of chastity with that sissy, so-called piece of nobility, and you're tired of waiting."

"Stop kidding yourself," she scoffed.

"You're the one in denial here," he said, stepping closer. He leaned his head close to hers and his scent washed over her. "You know you want some of this." He ran his hands down his lean torso, and Elizaveta felt a strange tingling in her stomach as she resisted the urge to do the same. Instead, she pushed him away with all her strength, sending him staggering.

"I'd rather die," she said harshly, and ran back upstairs.

* * *

"Shit," Gilbert mumbled.

"I think your business here is done," Roderich said. "You may now go home and cry by yourself."

"I can't, actually," Gilbert said. "West has company."

"Is it Feliciano?" Roderich asked disapprovingly.

"Yup. So I'm not allowed to go back until tomorrow." Gilbert sank into the couch with a sigh.

"My sincerest sympathies. However, I'd still rather you left my house," Roderich said, walking back over to the piano.

"Roddy, I have nowhere to go. Just let me stay here for a little, okay?" Gilbert whined. "I'll be on my best behavior."

Roderich frowned, rested his fingers lightly on the keys, and thought for a moment. "Just as long as you don't disturb Elizaveta, you may stay," he said finally.

"Thanks." Gilbert stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes. "You don't mind if I nap here, do you?"

"Does it make a difference whether or not I mind?" Roderich muttered.

"Nope."

Roderich resumed with Mozart, and the house was filled with song once more.

* * *

Despite her most diligent efforts, he would not go away. He floated around the room, pestering her, teasing her, _tempting _her. The smell of him still filled her nostrils. His crimson eyes still bored into hers.

It had been over an hour since she'd fled upstairs and Elizaveta still couldn't get Gilbert out of her head.

It wasn't that she _liked _the monster - he was just being his usual annoying self. Long gone and still bugging the hell out of her. That's all it was.

"Ugh," she groaned. She got up from her bed and paced around the room. She needed to get out the house and do something - staying cooped up in here was going to drive her crazy. Some mindless work would be nice; too bad she didn't have a job. She decided to call her parents and tell them she would be getting a divorce, first of all. They wouldn't like it, but it would be best to have them informed as quickly as possible to give them time to get used to the idea.

She dialed her mother's number.

* * *

Gilbert was in the middle of a nice dream involving his Uncle Fritz, a potato field, and multiple rainbows when Elizaveta's shrill voice dragged him back to consciousness.

"What the _hell _is he still doing here?" she was screaming.

"Elizaveta," Roderich said soothingly. "He's only sleeping."

"Why isn't he gone? Why didn't he leave?" she continued, glaring at her husband accusingly.

"Liz," Gilbert said, rising and cutting off Roderich's response. "I was just keeping Roddy company until you changed your mind."

"You - !"

"Plus, West won't let me come home yet." He shrugged.

Elizaveta turned away from him sharply. "Well. Rest assured that I will beat your sorry ass thoroughly into submission in good time, but there's no need to hang around waiting for it now. Roderich and I have business to attend to."

"We do?"

She looked at him wearily. "Our families refuse to let us divorce."

"I thought they might," Roderich said, frowning.

"So what do we do?"

"Oi, that's easy," Gilbert interrupted.

"Was I asking you?" Elizaveta snapped.

"I know someone who can help you," Gilbert continued, as though she had not spoken.

"Who?"

"My dad."

Roderich let out a soft gasp. "Of course," he murmured. "Uncle Wilhelm."

People rarely believed Gilbert when he told them he and Roderich were cousins, but they had an ever harder time believing that he and Ludwig were brothers. Ludwig, after all, took after their father; tall and broad-shouldered, with pale blue eyes framed by a perpetual frown, he would have been able to pass as Wilhelm Beillschmidt if not for his much more conservative hair style. Gilbert, on the other hand, shared none of his father's features, a fact he couldn't help but resent, and as a result he spent a lot of time dropping verbal reminders that they were related.

"How can he help?" Elizaveta asked now.

"He's a lawyer, duh. Plus he practically runs the Beillschmidts, and the Beillschmidts practically run the Edelsteins. There's no way he can't swing it - if I ask him, of course."

Elizaveta didn't like the look of that smug expression he was wearing. "What do you mean, if you ask him? Why can't Roderich ask him?"

"I'm his son, Liz. Roderich is his nephew - his nephew who quit the firm a little while back, in case you'd forgotten. Me and West are the only ones who can see him without an appointment anyways. We could go see him now, if you want, 'cause I got nothing to do all day."

"Roderich," Elizaveta said, "we don't really have to bring him, do we?"

"Well - "

"Of course you do," Gilbert said. He grinned. This was how it was supposed to be, this constant bickering. He and Liz would argue, and Roderich would try to contribute, and it would go on forever. It had been like this before - a comfortable ritual, a never-ending cycle, but when those two had gotten married everything had been thrown off-kilter. Things had been too peaceful. Now it seemed that they were already unmarried in their minds, and things were back to normal again.

Elizaveta huffed. "Fine, then. We don't need to go right now. We'll make an appointment."

"If you don't go with me, you'll be charged," Gilbert said. He knew this would be the clincher. There was no way that cheap, penny-pinching bastard would pass up an opportunity to save money.

"Elizaveta," Roderich said. "Let's be reasonable. This family connection is one we can't pass up - "

"Fine! Fine, okay? Just - ugh. Okay, get in the car, both of you."

"Shouldn't I drive?" Gilbert objected. "My car is more awesome than yours."

"I'll let you drive when I want to die," Elizaveta said firmly. "I'm driving."

Gilbert laughed. "I like it when you get all forceful like that."

He was promptly slapped, but even the severe stinging in his cheek couldn't wipe the grin off his face.

* * *

**a/n. Thanks for reading! Next chapter we shall meet Germania. I named him Wilhelm lol but don't blame me, blame the internet results when I searched for Germanic names.**


	3. 1,3

**a/n: Short chapter is short, sorry. **

**

* * *

**

When they arrived at the Beillschmidt law firm, they were immediately cleared by the secretary to see Gilbert's father in his office on the top floor.

"So, what are we going to say to him?" Elizaveta asked as they waited for the elevator.

"We really have no leverage, no bargaining power," Roderich said with a thoughtful frown.

"We could offer to pay," Elizaveta said.

"Guys, you're being dumb. He's my _dad_. I'll take care of it, okay?" Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Seriously."

"Yeah, well, what are you going to say?" Elizaveta asked. The metal doors before them slid open silently, and they stepped into the thickly carpeted elevator.

"Cool your jets, Liz. Stop worrying so much."

"I am not worried. I just want this to go well."

"Look. Liz. I have a plan, okay? All you and Roddy need to do is smile and nod. Just smile and nod. Got it?"

"Smile and nod," she repeated under her breath. "This better work."

"I don't know if I can do that," Roderich said.

"What, smile and nod? Why the hell not?" Gilbert said, surprised.

"Your dad . . . is scary," Roderich admitted, his voice barely more than a mumble.

"You're just a sissy," Gilbert snorted. "If you can't smile, then just nod."

"I sincerely hope you know what you're doing," Roderich said. "I can't allow my family to find out about Vash. If they knew - "

"I know. They'd disown you. And you'd miss out on all their piles of money, wah wah wah." Gilbert sighed. "Please, just have a little faith, guys. I know what's riding on the line."

"Do you really?" Roderich asked quietly.

"Better than you do," Gilbert replied. "All right. Smile and nod."

They made their way down a long hallway, at the end of which Wilhelm Beillschmidt's office door was slightly ajar. Gilbert entered first, saying loudly, "Hi, Dad."

"Son." Elizaveta heard the deep voice before she stepped into the room, and when she did she couldn't help but give a little gasp. It was a huge space, though low-ceilinged, with three of the four walls made of glass so as to provide a view of the city around them. A large, oaken desk occupied one corner of the room, its surface overflowing with papers and folders which covered the keyboard of an expensive computer. There were also stacks of documents heaped on the small conference table, as well as the low coffee table, and a few loose sheafs were scattered on the two leather couches. It was on one of these couches that Wilhelm Beillschmidt himself was reclining, holding a beer in one hand cradling his forehead with the other.

"Getting lots of work done?" Gilbert asked mockingly.

"Yes, lots." Unlike Gilbert, who'd been raised entirely in America, Wilhelm spoke with a slight but noticeable German accent.

"Can I have a beer?"

"In the fridge." He waved a hand towards his desk, and Elizaveta saw a sleek, silver appliance that was undoubtedly stocked with a month's supply of liquor.

"You guys want?" Gilbert asked Roderich and Elizaveta as he crossed the room.

"No, thanks," Roderich said stiffly. At the sound of his voice, Wilhelm sat up and set his beer down. He surveyed his nephew with narrowed eyes, running a hand through his shoulder-length blond hair.

"Roderich." His tone was neutral, but his eyes were cold.

"Uncle Wilhelm." Roderich spoke deferentially, head slightly inclined.

"What brings you and your lovely wife here today?"

"I brought them, Dad," Gilbert said, returning to sit on the couch opposite his father. He motioned for Elizaveta and Roderich to do the same. "I was hoping you could do me a favor."

"Do _them_ a favor, you mean," Wilhelm corrected.

"Sort of. But really it's for me," Gilbert said with a slight quirk of his lips.

"What is it?"

"A divorce. Easy, right?"

"Depends. I'm guessing you came to me because the Edelsteins are too proud to allow it."

"Pretty much. Well see, it's like this. The reason they need a divorce is 'cause Roddy cheated on Liz and wants to be with the Zwingli's son."

Roderich made a strangled noise in his throat.

"And of course you can't tell them about that," Wilhelm said. "Don't worry, I won't," he added as he caught sight of Roderich's mortified expression. "I know how your family works. They will deny that their son was not faithful, claiming that his wife is simply trying to wring money out of them by suing for divorce. They will twist the facts and they will not listen to reason."

"Correct," Roderich muttered.

"So what are we supposed to do?" Elizaveta asked, worried. "It sounds like there's no way to divorce without one or both of us being disowned."

Wilhelm considered her a moment. "Miss Hedervary," he said finally, "tell me. Is your family reasonably tolerant, would you say?"

"Um," Elizaveta hedged. Gilbert was glaring at her as though to say, _Smile and nod! _"Fairly tolerant, I suppose. More so than the Edelsteins." _But they still said they'd do everything in their power to prevent this marriage from ending_, she added in her head.

Wilhelm glanced at his son. "I'm beginning to understand why you think this will be easy."

"I'm right, aren't I?" Gilbert said. "The Hedervarys aren't nearly as prideful. They'll be open to their daughter getting a divorce as long as they end up with a better deal than the one they started with."

"A better deal?" Elizaveta said. "I don't get it."

Roderich groaned. "I do."

"I'll explain," said Wilhelm. "We've already determined that Roderich's family won't accept a divorce just because he cheated, and the fact that he cheated can't be revealed to them anyway because he cheated with another man. They will, however, accept a divorce if his wife was the one who cheated, because he is then portrayed as the victim and thus, blameless."

"But I didn't cheat," Elizaveta said.

"Yet," Gilbert said with a laugh.

"Please let me continue," Wilhelm said sternly. "As long as they do not lose money from this divorce, the Edelsteins will support it and their son, advertising the fact that they are better off without such a shameless daughter in law."

Elizaveta opened her mouth to speak but Gilbert elbowed her. _Smile and nod_.

"However, the Hedervarys will not be pleased with this outcome. If presented with indisputable evidence, they won't deny that their daughter cheated, but they will be upset about her having lost such a wealthy husband, possibly to the point of disinheritance or disownment. If the person with whom their daughter has a relationship belongs to a family even more affluent than the Edelsteins, however, they will treat the matter with more leniency and think of it as an upgrade."

"I'm not having an affair!" Elizaveta exclaimed. "I guess what you're saying makes sense, but I haven't had a relationship with anyone, affluent or not."

"But you will," Gilbert said confidently. "You'll have to. And when Roddy forks over the evidence that you weren't faithful, his family'll call my dad, and the divorce'll be done in a snap."

Wilhelm nodded.

"Okay, rewind," Elizaveta said, frustrated. "If this all hinges on my having an affair, does that mean we just have to fake one? With someone from a really . . . powerful . . . " She trailed off, staring at Gilbert in horror. He grinned toothily in response.

"Oh, no. No, no, no." She stood up. "There's no way."

"It's the only way," Wilhelm said calmly. He picked up his beer and took a sip.

"Elizaveta. It's not like you really have to do anything with him. It's all fake," Roderich said quietly.

"But - but - " she sputtered. "It's _him_! I just - "

"There's no one else," Gilbert said, still grinning. "The Beillschmidts are the cream of the fucking crop. And I mean, unless you want to hit up West, I'm the only Beillschmidt who can make it work."

"Maybe I will use your brother," she retorted, furious.

Wilhelm coughed. "Ludwig is not available for this job."

With a groan Elizaveta recalled the many times she'd prayed that Ludwig and Feliciano would get together, and she hastily took it all back.

"That's all it is," Roderich said soothingly, "a job. Just a job. Nothing more."

She said nothing.

"For me, Elizaveta. Please do it for me," Roderich pleaded. His voice was tinged with desperation, and as usual, she was incapable of refusing him.

"Fine," she said reluctantly. "Fine, I'll do it."

Roderich breathed a sigh of relief, Gilbert pumped his fist in the air triumphantly, and Wilhelm took another sip of beer. Elizaveta realized that she still had another question.

"So what is it exactly that we're doing?"

* * *

Matthew Williams liked to think that he was good at his job. Being invisible came naturally to him, and invisibility was a highly useful skill when one was a private eye.

But just because he was good at it didn't mean he liked it. There were certain awkward situations that came with being a private eye. It wasn't that he had a problem with spying on people, because if he did he wouldn't have gone into the private eye business at all. It wasn't even that he felt uncomfortable investigating the sexual lives of others, because that was something he was hired to do on a regular basis.

But sometimes, like now, he had the misfortune to run into one of the many people he'd once been hired to tail. This, however, was no chance meeting on the street, no casual introduction from a friend; he'd had those, and they were plenty awkward, but they'd never measure up to actually having to work for a man whose sex life he'd observed in vivid detail just one week ago.

"Well, Matthew," Roderich was saying to him. "You come very highly recommended from an acquaintance of mine."

"Er - thank you," Matthew said. He could well imagine how amused Francis must be. He had been the one who had come to Matthew last week asking if he could do him great favor and please watch Roderich Edelstein and see what was going on between him and that Vash character. Francis had then, only yesterday, called him and told him he was referring a new client to him, and he should be grateful for such a caring and thoughtful friend.

"I have a fairly simple task I need carried out," Roderich continued. "You see, my wife and I are arranging a divorce, but we cannot obtain one without her first having had an affair. Therefore, we must fabricate one, and procure evidence of it."

"So . . . your wife will know I'm following her?" Matthew frowned.

"Yes. But I need you to get footage, or photos, or anything to portray this as convincingly as possible. Because it will be scrutinized."

Matthew shrugged. "As long as she and this other guy play their parts convincingly enough, I'll capture it."

Roderich nodded. "I'll tell them that."

"Will they just be at a hotel, then?"

"Yes, I think so. It should be straightforward, a short night for you."

"I don't get many of those," Matthew muttered.

"In any case, just make sure it's convincing. That's all."

"Fine." Matthew nodded. "I'll contact you when I've got the photos."

"Very good." Roderich stood to leave. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a phone call to make."

* * *

Their conversation was brief.

"Hello?"

"Vash."

"Oh, it's you. Please don't call me again."

"VASH DON'T HANG UP!"

". . ."

"Thank you. Now if you'll let me explain - "

"I'd rather not. Haven't we already determined that you and I are not going to be together?"

"You said if I left my wife we could!"

"You left your wife?"

"Not yet, but - "

"So we have nothing more to discuss."

"VASH - "

_click._

**a/n: Yes it is inexcusably short. But my excuse is that the next (and final) chapter is much longer.**

**Also the next chapter will have a teeny bit of Vash, whom I miss dearly.**

**Thank you for reading! Especially since this chapter is so crappy lol. **


	4. 1,4

**a/n: Final chapter! Of part one, that is. I had thought it would turn out a bit longer, but oh well, here it is. **

**It is somewhat... racier than previous chapters. However, I'm not upping the rating until part two.**

**Thank you so much to everyone who's read and/or reviewed this story! Makes me quite happy :)**

* * *

"I'm not having sex with him," Elizaveta said stoutly. "I won't do it."

"I never said you had to," Roderich said. "But it needs to look like you are."

Elizaveta gritted her teeth. "Why am _I _the one who has to suffer like this?"

"Because Roddy inherited that gold-inlaid stick up his ass from his selfish, snobby father, and won't risk his own pride for your sake like you're doing for his?" Gilbert suggested.

Roderich glared at him, and Elizaveta smacked him with a pillow. Luckily for Gilbert, they were in the Edelsteins' bedroom and not their kitchen, where the closest object she could find with which to hit him might have been something heavier or sharper.

"Ow," he muttered, scooting farther away from her. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, she on the bed, and Roderich was beginning to pace back and forth between them. It was now Sunday; a mere twenty-four hours had elapsed since their visit to Wilhelm Beillschmidt, after which the three had gone their separate ways; Gilbert had, only slightly unwillingly, driven off after being unceremoniously kicked out of the car, Elizaveta had retired to her room for a much needed nap, and Roderich had taken the car to visit "a friend of Francis'." Now, having regrouped, they were ready to form a battle plan.

"Elizaveta," Roderich said. "Please refrain from violence while we are discussing what to do."

She folded her hands in her lap, eyes downcast repentantly. "Sorry."

"Roddy, it's not like some big deal we have to plan out," Gilbert objected. "I mean, we go in, we pretend to get it on, we leave. Done deal."

"Elizaveta is having difficulty comprehending the task at hand," Roderich said snappishly. "I just want to be certain that this goes on without a hitch."

Gilbert sighed, mumbling something that sounded like, "so retarded."

"So," the Austrian continued. "You two will check in as Mr. and Mrs. Beillschmidt. You'll proceed up to the room."

"No shit," Gilbert said.

"Can you keep your mouth shut for two seconds? Let him finish talking," Elizaveta said, irritated.

"Once inside the room," Roderich continued, oblivious to the other two, "I'll need you to kiss."

"NO," Elizaveta thundered immediately.

"Let him finish talking," Gilbert said mockingly.

"Yes, please. I'll need you to kiss, or appear to. Kissing is a realistic thing for a couple to do. It'd be odd if you failed to do so."

Elizaveta hung her head. It made sense. But - to kiss Gilbert, while knowing full well that it was being captured on camera, that it would be seen, _examined_ - the thought was unbearable.

"Go on," she said miserably.

"After you kiss, Gilbert will remove his shirt." He paused. "And you, Elizaveta, will remove yours."

"So wear a nice bra," Gilbert cackled.

Elizaveta reddened and clenched her fists.

"Gilbert will remove his pants, and you yours."

"That's as far as I'm undressing," Elizaveta said firmly. "The underwear is staying on."

"That's fine," Roderich said with a nod. "Now, once you're both down to - "

"Hold up," Gilbert interrupted. "I think it'd be more convincing if we undressed each other."

"That's nice."

"No, really, Liz! I mean, think about it. In the heat of passion, I'd probably take your shirt off myself."

"Like I said, that's nice. You are going to keep your hands to yourself, do you understand?"

"Liz - "

"I mean it!" She scowled. "Do you have any shame?"

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head cheerfully. "Not a bit."

"Anyways," Roderich cut in before Elizaveta could respond, "once you're both down to undergarments, it would be appropriate to move to the bed. There, it will be possible to get beneath the covers and thus conceal the fact that there is in fact nothing going on."

"Thank God," Elizaveta added under her breath.

"And I trust Gilbert will make a convincing enough show of that."

"You bet your ass I will," Gilbert said with a wink. "Be sure to get lots of pretty pictures of this. I guarantee you'll be entertained."

* * *

Gilbert hated being kept waiting. Elizaveta knew this about him.

Yet she _still _hadn't shown up, and it was a quarter past eight, the time they'd agreed to meet at the hotel.

As the chattering crowd flowed around him on the sidewalk, Gilbert glanced up at the curtain of dark sky hanging over the buzzing city lights. It was the perfect night for a date, if he did say so himself; he would have given anything to have a real date with Elizaveta on a night like this. He sighed, the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips. Oh, well. She'd come to her senses soon enough.

As the minutes continued to drag past, he began to wonder what the hell was taking her so long. Maybe she was making him wait on purpose, just to piss him off. He pulled out his phone.

"Hello?" she answered innocently.

"Liz, where are you? I've been waiting here for, like, twenty minutes," Gilbert said, annoyed.

"Calm down, I'm on my way," she replied.

"Well, what's taking you so long?"

There was an audible sigh from her end of the line. "Nothing. I'll be there soon."

"Fine."

He heard her voice call his name, five minutes later: "Gil!"

He turned around, expecting to see her hurrying toward him, hair loose, in her usual, casual attire; she would be her tomboyish self, comfortably dressed and constantly in motion.

Instead, she was standing in front of the hotel's revolving door with a hand on one hip, raising an eyebrow at him as though he were the late one, her hair tied up in a high ponytail that swung slightly as she tipped her head to one side. The black dress clinging tightly to her form fell halfway down her toned thighs, and Gilbert noted with astonishment that she was wearing matching black heels. A vibrant pink flower was tucked behind one ear, and her hand came up to touch it and make sure it was still there. She was sleek, sophisticated.

Well. This was different.

"Liz?" he asked tentatively, walking to her.

"Who else would it be?" She sounded amused. "Let's get this over with."

"So, what's with the getup?" Gilbert said conversationally as they crossed the lobby.

Elizaveta rolled her eyes. "Roderich. He literally got Francis to come and play dress up with me. It was horrible."

"I can imagine," Gilbert said. "I guess Frenchy had nothing better to do, then."

"Obviously not. For all his, 'I am the master of _amor_!' talk, he really has no social life."

"Mm." They had reached the front desk. "Hi, I have a reservation for Mr. and Mrs. Beillschmidt."

As he thanked the man behind the desk for the room key, he snuck a sideways glance at Elizaveta. God, she was really wearing makeup, wasn't she? She had to be. Her eyelashes hadn't been that big the last time he'd seen her, nor her lids that dark. And damn, she was exposing _such _a lot of skin with that low-cut halter thingy, compared to her usual ensemble of jeans and T-shirt . . . well, not that he was complaining.

The ride in the elevator was silent and made sufficiently awkward by Gilbert's constant gaping at Elizaveta's new look. When they got to the room she put her hand over the doorknob before he could open it.

"Okay," she said. "Before we do, uh, this, can you just . . . can you just not stare at me anymore?"

He scratched his head. "On one condition."

"What's that?" she asked warily.

"You gotta take that gunk off of your face. I barely recognize you."

"Oh." She removed her hand from the doorknob, and he led the way inside.

"C'mere," he said, flipping the light on in the bathroom. He wadded up some tissues and handed them to her.

"Um." She ran the tissues under the faucet and then dabbed at her eyes. "I don't think this is gonna do it."

"Let me try," Gilbert said impatiently. He took the damp tissues and began to scrub gently at her eyelids, holding her face steady by the chin. "There, look." The tissue came away black.

"Hurry up, then," she murmured. She could feel his breath washing slowly across her face, and she didn't like how her heart was pounding in response.

"Done," Gilbert said after a few minutes. "You look normal again."

Elizaveta gazed sadly into the mirror. "I . . . I kind of liked the makeup," she confessed.

"You don't need that shit," Gilbert said, waving his hand dismissively.

"It's pretty!"

"It's fake," Gilbert told her. "And you're real. Now come on."

He took her by the hand and led to the bed.

"Do you remember the sequence?" he said softly. "My shirt, your shirt, my pants, your pants?"

"Yeah, I remember." Could that be nervousness he detected in her voice?

"So why are you wearing a dress?"

She paled.

"Don't sweat it," he chuckled. "I think we can make it work. But don't forget, the kiss comes first."

"Not a real kiss," she said weakly.

He ignored her; cupping her face with one hand, he tilted his head and leaned in to press his lips to hers. She gave a squeak of dismay and broke away for a moment, but he kissed her again, insistently, and she stopped protesting. Because there could be no denying that the warm mouth moving against her own, the callused thumb tracing small circles over her cheek, the hand anchored firmly at her lower back, it all felt rather good. So she loosened, allowed him to deepen the kiss, and let her hand creep up to rest on his shoulder. When he finally pulled back, he was grinning and she was blushing.

"Aw, Liz. Don't be shy. Just admit that you want me," he whispered teasingly.

"You're the one that wants me," she said airily. "I'm just humoring you."

"Right." He smirked. "Right."

"You know what, just take off your shirt and let's get this over with, okay?"

"Oh, right." Gilbert began to fumble with her ponytail. "Well, nothing's coming off until your hair's down, so . . ."

"Dumbass," she muttered, pushing his fingers out of the way. "Let me."

Gilbert smiled as her hair cascaded down around her shoulders. "That's so much better."

"Now."

"Oh, yes, of course," he said. He grasped his V-neck T-shirt by the shoulders and pulled it off over his head. He knew her eyes were following his arms, his chest, every inch of his bare skin as he shed the garment; he could see it in the casualness with which she was determinedly looking away once it was off.

"Okay," he said softly. "Now you."

She bit her lip. "I - "

"What?"

"Fine."

She reached up to untie the fabric fastened at the back of her neck, and struggled with it for a few moments before finally untangling it from her hair. The two straps fell forward, but the dress, tight as it was, remained as closely glued to her body as ever. She sighed, and attempted to unzip the thing from the back. After a few unsuccessful tries, Gilbert spun her by the shoulders.

"I'll do it." The zipper was small, wedged tightly into the seam of the dress. He could see why she'd had trouble with it. Nonetheless, his fingers gripped it and slid the dress open on the first try, brushing slightly against the heat of her back. He was overwhelmed with the urge to taste her, to devour her, she was _right there _- but he held himself back.

"Thanks." She tugged at the dress until it pooled at her ankles, and the rosy light of the hotel lamp was playing over her skin, her curves, and as she turned back to face Gilbert she saw unmistakable lust in his eyes.

He cleared his throat. "So, Liz," he said. "I helped you out of that dress."

"Yeah?"

"You should help me out of my pants."

She rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to speak, but Gilbert put a finger over her lips. Then he took both her hands in his and brought them down to his waistband.

"I mean it."

She swallowed. Keeping her eyes fixed on his, she inched her fingers to the buckle of his jeans. He couldn't stop _smelling _her, and those green eyes were just boring into his, her fingers working with agonizing slowness to undo his pants . . .

And then she was pulling them down, dropping down into an abrupt squat, and God, the view from here was not bad at all, Gilbert thought. She was still staring him in the eye as she said, "Step out."

He obeyed. Once he was wearing only his boxers, though, he decided that he should be the one in control.

"Get up." She did. "Now. Under the covers."

"Are we - we're gonna - ?"

"Yeah." Gilbert strode to the side of the bed and threw back the covers, tilting his head to indicate that she should lie down.

When she hesitated, he lunged forward impatiently and grabbed her by the shoulders. "You're so damn slow," he whispered, his face nearly touching hers. "Stop being such a tease."

"Gil," she said weakly, "this isn't real - "

He gave her a shove, so that she fell onto the bed, where she soon found herself being straddled by Gilbert.

"So," he said, leaning forward and tracing from the center of her chest to her navel, "_this _isn't real?"

She shuddered slightly.

"And _this _isn't real?" He pressed his body flush against hers and kissed her, relishing the way she tasted, the way she felt, so soft beneath him, the way she moaned softly when her lips were beneath his.

"And this," he panted, rolling his hips so that she was sure to feel the bulge beneath his boxers. "Is this also not real?"

* * *

Elizaveta felt trapped. Not only was Gilbert physically pinning her to the mattress, but there was no way she could deny how much she wanted this. Her body was telling her clearly enough to _Go for it! _And the more she looked at Gilbert, the more difficult it was for her to come up with any reason not to do just that.

Had he always been this appealing? Had his muscles always been so well-defined? Had his scent always held this same, irresistible allure? Had his eyes always been filled with such an insatiable lust? And had the mere sight of his pale skin always driven her into such a frenzy?

She didn't know what, if anything had changed to make her want him so. But she didn't particularly care.

At this moment, the only thing that mattered was doing away with these hindering undergarments and bringing her body closer to his.

* * *

Matthew Williams was not having a good day.

It had started with the odd behavior of his partner, Toris. All morning, as the two of them had been in the office, Toris had been jumpy and unfocused, and he refused to tell Matthew why. Matthew in turn had become increasingly paranoid and had prepared for the evening's surveillance job constantly checking over his shoulder, jumping at the slightest sounds. When he said goodbye to Toris he was filled with an inexplicable worry for the other's well being, and he told himself he would check in on him after this job; after all, he had been promised it would be a short night.

Now he was sitting in a dingy blue station wagon, arriving at the unhappy conclusion that this was not in fact going to be a short night.

He had set up the video cameras in the room without any trouble, and was now gazing at the handheld screen feeding him live footage of the room several stories above his head. He had assumed that the couple involved would undress to a certain point, crawl under the covers, do a little dry humping, and then leave.

Instead they had undressed, fallen into the bed, and were now engaging in activities that made Matthew, seasoned as he was to witnessing such acts, blush profusely.

He slumped in his seat, sighed, and mentally prepared himself for what he felt sure would be a very, very long night.

* * *

Vash was growing weary of avoiding Roderich. It was difficult, after all, to see that name on his caller ID and choose to ignore it. It was difficult to lie to his little sister about what was making him so moody. And it was difficult to recall his one night with Roderich without blood rushing to his face and longing seizing his body.

Nonetheless, he did it. He had laid out what needed to happen very clearly, hadn't he? All he had to do was wait. In the meantime he would have to just continue staying at home and disregarding each of Roderich's phone calls. All he really had to do was turn off his phone, and then it became ridiculously easy to deny that Roderich even existed.

However, denying his existence became much more problematic when he showed up at Vash's door.

"You - ?" Vash stuttered. Wearing nothing more than a T-shirt and boxers, he had been expecting the mailman or a neighbor. He had not been expecting Roderich, panting and slightly flushed, looking more disheveled than he'd seen him in years. He had clearly pulled on the clothing closest at hand without his usual concern for appearance - Vash had never seen him in a sweatshirt before.

"Elizaveta left me," Roderich said breathlessly. "Last night she and Gilbert went to a hotel - and then this morning - called and said she wasn't coming back - and she's - and they - and now we - "

Vash didn't need to hear anymore. Pulling the other man toward him, he swiftly slammed the door shut.

"About time," he growled, before claiming Roderich's lips roughly. Soft hands cupped his face and slender legs encircled his waist; with a short grunt, Vash hefted Roderich up and carried him to the living room. Pants and gasps filled the room as Vash's tongue explored pale skin, as his hands relentlessly tossed aside unwanted garments, as his hips ground slowly in time with Roderich's. Nothing else was real; the only thing in this world was the lean body warm and writhing beneath his touch.

So absorbed was he in ravishing Roderich completely that he failed to notice the half-naked Italian sprinting across his backyard.

* * *

**a/n: And, well, there you have it. From here on out you can expect more sporadic updates, because of that stupid little thing called school. But thank you for reading up to this point!**

**Part two will include Francis, Arthur, Antonio, Lovino, Feliciano, and Ludwig. Quite a lineup. **

**Oh, and I feel obliged to mention: all the crap about private investigators? I MADE THAT UP. I am fairly sure that PIs do not do all the stuff Matthew does (ie, bugging a hotel room...), so let's just say that Matthew is so pro he can get away with anything. Truthfully I really just don't know anything about private eyes, except that you hire them to find out stuff for you. It was a convenient profession (and one that will be recycled later on).**

**'kay. That's all. **


	5. 2,1

Francis' problem, he decided, was that he was too popular for his own good.

Really, it was a little overwhelming at times, to be so highly sought after. Most people had to deal with attention from one gender at a time - Francis, despite his overall preference for, and tendency to pursue, men, had the kind of classical good looks that appealed to all sexes. Women wrapping themselves around him in bars, batting their eyelashes at him in cafes, calling him at all hours of the night; men beckoning him closer in bars, staring at his ass in public, knocking on his door at all hours of the night - Francis usually took it all in stride. But sometimes, enough was enough.

"I don't really know what to do anymore. I am telling you, I have had it up to here with these women, these women and their drama. It's almost as though they expect me to be more than a one night stand. Really! The idea!" He glared into his coffee cup indignantly. "Me. More than a one night stand."

"Laughable," agreed Antonio. He sipped his latte complacently. "But why are you telling me all this?"

"Oh," sniffed Francis, "no, I don't suppose you'd be able to understand."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Antonio set his latte down, his green eyes glinting in amusement.

"Only that your mediocre experience in love can never compare to my own," Francis said haughtily. "I am more attractive, much sexier, a better dancer, and overall just more desired than you."

"Hmm," said Antonio thoughtfully. "I think I may be the better dancer."

"But the rest you can't deny," pressed Francis.

"If you say so," Antonio said mildly. "But if we are talking about who is better in love, let's not forget who it was that managed to get Ludwig in bed."

Francis snorted. "That doesn't count. It doesn't count if he doesn't remember it."

"Drunk sex is still sex. Please don't be jealous."

"Jealous? Then who was it that got Feli's first kiss, hm?"

"Actually, that was Ludwig."

"Ah, well. Second kiss, then."

"That doesn't count at all. He was, what, fifteen?"

"Pedophile kisses are still kisses."

"Touche. Well, if we are counting pedophile kisses, then I can count mine with Alfred."

"Then I can count mine with Alfred as well!"

"But mine came first."

"Well. How about Feliks, did you ever get with him?"

". . . Why would I want to?"

"Tch, well you can't deny that Braginski is a fine piece of ass."

"I suppose. If you're into that sort of thing."

Francis huffed. "Just admit that I'm superior. It will save us so much time."

"You may have had more . . . partners, but I am confident that mine have been of a much higher caliber. So say what you like, but I feel safe in my assumption that I am the better lover." Antonio smiled. "After all, you said it yourself. You're nothing more than a one night stand."

Francis began to retort angrily, but it was then that a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Raising his eyebrow as he turned his head, he found himself looking into the serious, deep set blue eyes of Ludwig Beillschmidt.

"Please, Ludwig. Not that I don't enjoy your menacing company _immensely_, but I am in the middle of a very important conversation - "

"You don't understand," Ludwig said in that deep, rumbling voice of his. "I urgently need your help in a matter of love."

Both Francis and Antonio gaped at him. Ludwig held Francis' gaze, though a light blush had risen to his cheeks.

The silence was broken by a triumphant "AHA!" from Francis.

"What?" asked Ludwig, startled.

Francis whirled to face Antonio. "Ha! You see! It's widely known that I, _I, _am the expert in love! Not you. _Moi!_"

"Actually," Ludwig interrupted, "you're just the one of the horniest people I know. I would have asked Arthur, but he wasn't home. Gilbert told me you were here, so . . ." He shrugged. "Last resort."

Antonio stuck out his tongue at Francis, who scowled back. "Well, he still came to me, not you, didn't he?"

"As a last resort," Antonio said. He got up, smiled at Ludwig. "Well, I'll let you two talk alone for a bit. I need to make a phone call, anyways."

Ludwig sat down opposite Francis.

"So, what is this matter of love you mentioned?" Francis asked, his voice silky smooth. "Feel free to tell me _everything_."

"Er," Ludwig said, reddening further, "it's Feliciano."

"Ah, yes," Francis murmured, leaning forward eagerly. "So what did you do with him? You kissed him? Touched him? Or maybe you even went all the way - "

"O - of course not!" Ludwig cried. "I haven't done anything with him!"

"Oh." Francis looked vaguely disappointed for a moment, and then he perked up, exclaiming, "Oh, but of course! _That _is why you have come to me. Because you _want _to do something to him, and you don't know how."

"Essentially," Ludwig muttered, "yes."

"Well, you were right to come to me," Francis said happily. "You know what I would normally say?"

"I don't think I want to - "

"I'd tell you to fuck him." Francis smiled. "Just fuck him. But, I am feeling very generous today. I can tell that you want a real relationship with darling Feli, so I, with all my vast knowledge of romance, will help you devise a plan to make him yours."

"Should I be thanking you . . .?"

"No need, of course. I am doing this as a favor to the both of you," France said, waving a magnanimous hand.

Ludwig said nothing.

"So, let's start with this: How is your relationship with him now, exactly?"

"Well," Ludwig said, frowning, "we are friends. Even though he is so obnoxious, and so useless, and always depending on me to do everything, I still consider him my friend. And, well, he likes to sleep over a lot, so I guess we are close. But a few days ago, he came to me, asking if I only liked him for his pasta. And I said no, because that isn't true, and that seemed to make him very happy, and ever since then . . . I don't know." He looked embarrassed.

"Ever since then . . ." Francis said, a dreamy look on his face, "you have fantasized about him . . . have lusted after him . . . whenever you look at him, you cannot help but imagine running your hands all over him, kissing those cute little lips, and all day long, doing nothing but f - "

"Um!" Ludwig interjected. "Anyways, back to the point. How do you think I should go about this?"

"Well," Francis sniffed. "It's obvious, isn't it? You must _romance _him."

"Romance?" Ludwig looked taken aback at the thought.

"Yes. You must treat him gently, open doors for him, hold his hand, smile and tell him how much he means to you. You must take him to dinner, give him flowers, make him feel like the most important person in the world, light some scented candles, put on some nice music, and _then _you can whip out the lube - "

"Okay, okay," Ludwig said hastily, reddening as people around them began to stare.

"So?" Francis tapped his fingers on the tabletop impatiently. "What are you waiting for? Get going!"

"Ah! Let me just . . ." Ludwig produced a notepad and a pencil. "What did you say? Dinner, flowers, candles . . . I must make a list."

* * *

"So how was your little chat with Ludwig?" Antonio asked. It was evening now, and he and Francis were whiling the night away at a bar, as was their custom.

"Oh, it was good," Francis said airily. "It was about Feliciano, of course."

"Of course," Antonio said, watching him carefully. "And what advice did you give him?"

"Well, he just seemed to have absolutely no idea how to go about getting with our little Feli," Francis said with a shrug. "I only gave him a few tips. You know."

"Oh, yes, yes," Antonio said. "Well, I hope you've lived up to your title of 'Master of Love,' or whatever it is you call yourself."

"I don't call myself anything of the sort," Francis said, smirking, "but if you wish to call me your Love Master, I am alright with that."

"I thought we went over this?" Antonio said. "It's the other way around. I am the more romantic of the two of us."

Francis snorted. "In your dreams! Isn't French the language of love? What could be more romantic than that?"

"And isn't Spain the country of passion? That's where I grew up, you know."

"Doesn't mean a thing," Francis said dismissively.

Antonio smiled. "You wanna bet?"

"Sure! I'll bet that if, starting right now, we were each to try and find someone to sleep with us, I would be the first to succeed." Francis slid off of his barstool, and crossed the bar purposefully. "Allow me to show you," he purred as he swept past Antonio.

"Okay, I didn't mean - "

"Excuse me." Francis flashed a gentle smile at two women sipping martinis. They looked up. He pulled up a chair and sat down. "I couldn't help but notice you from over there, I just - I feel that I know you two ladies from somewhere."

Antonio rolled his eyes. He signaled to the bartender to bring him the bill.

"Mm," one of the women said, smiling coolly. "No, I don't think you do."

"Ah," Francis said. His bright blue eyes gleamed, and his voice became lower, huskier. "Now that is a shame. You do realize what this means, then, don't you?"

"No," the second woman said, leaning forward slightly. "No, what does it mean?"

"Well, now I feel obligated to get to know you better." He took the second one's hand. "Much, much better . . ."

"Time to go, Francis." The blond turned to glare at Antonio's cheerful face.

"What, are you forfeiting?"

"No, no. I'm so sorry, ladies," he said with an apologetic smile. "I must steal him away from you."

"It's okay," the first woman replied dryly. The second one merely sighed.

When they were outside, Francis crossed his arms. "So? I thought you wanted to have a bet."

"I do," Antonio said. "But you didn't give me a chance to fully explain."

"So explain then." They began to walk, making their way down the lively city street.

"Well. As you have just demonstrated, if we were to approach random strangers in bars, it would be just too simple to get them to sleep with us. So you see, this doesn't really answer the question of who is better in love. Love and one night stand - they have different meanings. So to test who is really better in love - I think it should still be how soon you can get someone to sleep with you, but - "

"Then I'll still win," Francis said.

Antonio smiled and waggled a finger. "But you don't get to choose who you will pursue. I do."

Francis' triumphant look faded slightly, but then he shrugged. "Fine. So I get to pick yours?"

"Yes. And I already have someone in mind for you."

Francis didn't like that tone of voice. ". . . Who?"

"Arthur Kirkland."

Francis paled. "Ah. So it will be like this."

"Yes." There was a short silence in which Francis, his forehead creased and his eyebrows knit, seemed to be contemplating the cracks in the sidewalk as they walked. Antonio wondered whether or not he should speak, but Francis soon exhaled loudly.

"Antonio," he said slowly. "I didn't want to make it come to this. But it seems you've left me no choice."

"What?"

"Lovino."

"Lovi - oh, that's who I'm sleeping with?" Antonio suppressed a laugh. Was this the best he could do? "I see."

"So this is it? We're doing this?" Francis asked, sounding hopeful that Antonio would say no.

"I guess so. Unless you want to back out?" Antonio said innocently.

"Of course not!" Francis exclaimed indignantly.

"Good. So, let's take tonight off and tomorrow begin wooing, si?"

"Fine."

* * *

It wasn't that Feliciano particularly _disliked _pants; no, the rather large amount of time he spent out of them had less to do with his actual feelings for pants than the sheer forgetfulness that caused him to simply walk past them on his way out the door whenever he was in a hurry.

Ludwig knew this about him. He must have - after all, they had been close for years. And yet he still insisted on scolding the scatterbrained Italian every time he showed up in nothing but a T-shirt and boxers at his door.

"Feliciano!" he yelled now. "How many times have I told you?"

"Um," Feliciano hedged.

"_We do not leave the house without pants on!_"

"Ve, sorry," Feliciano said, "but I was just - I wanted to give you something!"

"Eh? Well come in first," Ludwig said gruffly. "I'll give you some pants to wear."

"Okay. But you know your pants don't really fit me. Your legs are so long!"

Ludwig ignored him and disappeared upstairs. Feliciano trailed faithfully after him.

"Here," he said, tossing Feliciano a baggy pair of pajama pants without looking at him. "Really, Feliciano, you've got to start clothing yourself fully before coming here. Because one of these days my brother will be around when you show up with no pants on, and God knows what he'd say or do . . ."

"I'm not really afraid of Gilbert," Feliciano said thoughtfully. "I mean, you'd be here, too, right? So there wouldn't be anything to worry about."

Ludwig's back was still to him, but Feliciano thought he saw the older man's ears turning red. He smiled to himself as he pulled the pants on and tied the drawstring.

"Ve, Ludwig, the pants are on now!" he announced.

Ludwig turned around, sighing audibly. "Good - "

"But now it's too hot, so I think I'll take my shirt off!" He pulled his T-shirt off over his head and tossed it onto Ludwig's bed. "Ahh, much better!"

"F - Feliciano!" Ludwig stammered. "No shirt is just as bad as no pants!"

"Eh, too late now," Feliciano said with a shrug. "Oh, but that thing I wanted to give you - where did I put it? Ah, I must have left it downstairs. Hold on, I'll be right back."

He left a speechless Ludwig in the bedroom to close his eyes and shake his head and try not to replay the memory of Feliciano stripping off his shirt.

"So what is it you want to give me?" he asked when Feliciano returned.

"This!" Feliciano thrust a crumpled purple flyer at him. "Dick's House of Sausages. Thirty percent off! And Ludwig, you _love _sausages! You love your wursts. Right?"

"But this - " Ludwig choked, eyes rapidly taking in the flyer. "I'm not - I can't - this is - "

"Eh? Ludwig, come on! You told me yourself that you love your wursts so much that you could spend all day just devouring them, just one after another, into your mouth, until late into the night - "

"Feliciano, this is not that same kind of sausage!" Ludwig's face was now bright red. "Can't you read? Hell, without even _reading _it - do you have _eyes_? This is a gay strip club!"

"Hm?"

"Feliciano, where did you get this?"

"Ve, it was in my mailbox this morning. And I saw the word sausage, and right away I thought of you." Worry clouded his eyes and he leaned forward, grabbing the front of Ludwig's wife beater. "You're not mad at me, are you?"

"I - no, I'm not mad." It was hard to be mad when a shirtless Feliciano was standing so close to him.

"Oh, good!" He wrapped his arms around Ludwig's thick torso, nuzzling his chest in an affectionate hug. "I don't like it when you're mad at me . . ."

"I - I'm never mad at you . . ." Ludwig said quietly. He swallowed. "I . . ."

"Mm." Feliciano snuggled closer, and Ludwig suppressed a groan. There was only the thin layer of his tank top between the heat of their bodies, and he could actually feel the other man's easy breath against his collarbone. He told himself to get a grip - hadn't Francis told him only yesterday that he had to take things slow, be a gentleman?

"Feliciano." His voice was barely more than a whisper; any louder and he thought it might crack. "Why are you hugging me?"

"I just wanted to," Feliciano said, his lips brushing softly against Ludwig's neck. At that the latter jumped away abruptly. "Ludwig? What's wrong?"

"Nothing!" Ludwig shouted. "Nothing is wrong! I just remembered I have to go now, so I'll just leave you here. Please don't break anything." Without so much as glancing at Feliciano, he turned and hurried out the front door, closing it with a bang behind him.

Feliciano frowned, staring at the door.

"What am I doing wrong?" he wondered.

* * *

**a/n: This is not where I wanted to end the chapter, but whatever, posting it anyways. So Part 2 may or may not be longer than Part 1, I guess we'll see, but probably not any time soon because school is kicking my ass big time right now. **

**Uh, yeah. Thanks for reading!**


	6. 2,2

Arthur's problem, he decided, was that he was too clever for his own good.

It was his cleverness, after all, that had gotten him this job, and it was his cleverness that had allowed him to climb higher and higher within the company, and just last month, it had been his cleverness that had been the cause of his pay raise. And that pay raise had allowed him to indulge himself, and what he chose to indulge himself with was a sports car. And the sports car, now parked in the company's garage with Arthur behind the wheel, was the cause of unwanted attention from a certain frog.

"Nice wheels," commented Francis. "A Jag? Classy."

"Thank you," Arthur said through gritted teeth. "Now if you'll kindly move aside."

"I am merely admiring the build of this deliciously expensive car." Francis circled around the front of the car, scratching his stubbled chin. "Please allow me to do at least that, since you lack the courtesy to offer me a ride."

"You know, it's not that I don't _want _to run you over. But manslaughter is always accompanied by some tedious legal situation, so I'd really prefer you just _got out of my way_."

"You do know how this situation can be remedied, don't you?" Francis said.

"I don't think you quite understand how much you're tempting me by standing there right now. You do know how easy it would be for me to put my foot on the gas, don't you?"

"Arthur, you can't possibly buy such a car and then expect me to ignore it, can you? For you to flaunt it like this in front of me, who has no car at all - it's almost cruel." He sighed. "But you know, if you were to give me a little ride in it, just one . . . I feel sure that my curiosity would be satisfied."

"Please don't joke like that; for a moment I almost thought you wanted to me to allow you to get into my car."

"Oh, come on. One ride."

"No."

"One little ride!"

"Never."

"One ride and I swear on my life I'll never bother you about this car again."

Arthur glared at him.

"One ride. Get in before I change my mind."

Francis grinned as he slid into the passenger seat. "Ah, this is every bit as glorious as I had imagined."

Arthur said nothing.

"Has a fantastic 'new car' smell - and this leather is absolutely divine," Francis continued, running his hand along the armrest.

Arthur slapped his hand away. "Don't touch anything."

"You are much too uptight," Francis remarked easily. "But really. I do love how it smells in here." He paused and took a great whiff. "Doesn't it kind of remind you of sex?"

"I'm just going to ignore you. I am going to keep my eyes on the road and drive you home and then you will never speak to me about my car ever again."

"Ignore me?" Francis said, amused. "Fine, then. Good. Then I can do this, and you will have no objection." He reached down the front of his pants. "Because . . . _ah_ . . . you are ignoring me . . ."

Arthur paled. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen the pale hand snake down dark trousers, and he was afraid of what was coming next. "Oy! Don't you dare do that in my car!"

"You don't . . . _mm _. . . know what I'm doing . . . you're ignoring me . . ." Francis closed his eyes and tilted his head back.

"How can I ignore you when you're fucking _wanking _in my car! Stop it right now!" Arthur cried, his face growing red. "You're disgusting!"

"_Nn_ . . . I can't help it . . . this car is so perfect . . . smells so _good_ . . ." Francis moaned, his hand jerking with increasing vigor.

"No! That is it! Get out of my car! This instant!" Arthur screeched, slamming on the brake. The Jaguar shuddered to a halt - right in the middle of an intersection. Cars honked and swerved around them.

"_Mon Dieu_! Are you trying to get us killed?" Francis asked, hand still pumping. "Well . . . I suppose the excitement is what makes it fun . . ."

"I am not trying to get _us _killed. I am trying to get _you _out of my car."

"Why? I'm not doing any harm . . ."

"You either get out of my car or you get your hand out of your pants."

Francis sighed. "You are cold. Fine, I give in."

Arthur shot him a glare before speeding ahead.

In the split second between the moment of Francis' pulling his hand from between his legs and the moment of impact between the Jaguar and the Hyundai, time seemed to stop for Arthur. He knew what was going to happen - could see it in the path of the silver car as it shot ahead of him, could see it as he glimpsed the inattentive frown of the other driver, could feel it in the ice racing through his veins -

Then there was a bang and a thud and an explosion of airbags, and he coughed and spluttered and Francis' hand was gripping his shoulder, and through the honking and stopping of cars and rapping of knuckles at his window, all Arthur could do was imagine, with dread building in the pit of his stomach, what the front of the Jaguar must look like now.

* * *

"I hate you."

"What else is new?"

"I _hate _you. How could you do this to me?"

"Do what?"

"You know what! I have to get the entire front fender replaced, plus a new paint job because of the scratches."

"I didn't do that."

"But it was your fault! If you hadn't been touching yourself like the filthy pervert you are, I wouldn't have lost my head back there and that moronic Korean imbecile wouldn't have tried to pass me and we wouldn't have crashed and I wouldn't be in this mess at all!"

They were sitting in the grungy waiting room at the mechanic's. After the initial chaos accompanying the accident, Arthur had spoken with the other driver.

"Ah, this is just a fender bender, right?" the other man had said.

"Just - just a fender bender? Will you look at the state of my car?" Arthur had exclaimed.

"Eh . . . yeah, but look at mine!" He'd pointed to the rear fender of the Hyundai. "They're pretty much even in damages, right? And even if you sued me and stuff . . . it was kind of your fault, 'cause you stopped right in the middle there. So, let's just exchange numbers and then I really have to go, 'cause I'm already late and my boss is going to _kill _me - "

"Now, wait just a moment - "

"It's been nice meeting you!" The Asian man had smiled and scribbled his contact information on a scrap of paper; shoving it at Arthur, he'd waved a little before hurrying back to his car. "Come by the restaurant sometime, we can talk then!"

". . . can't believe he just ran off like that," Arthur grumbled now. "But nonetheless, it's _you _who's really to blame."

"That's hardly fair," Francis protested, crossing his arms. "_You _are the perverted one. If you weren't so easily turned on you would have just kept driving, and - "

"_Turned on_? Don't flatter yourself! I just don't approve of doing that kind of thing in the car, much less _my _car, my brand _new _car, where you might make a mess on the leather - "

"Fine, then, if you weren't such a little _prude_ you would have just kept driving - "

"I am not a prude! _You _just have no sense of decency! Honestly, _why _you suddenly had the urge to do _that _of all things - "

"I told you! It smelled good!"

"Oh, don't give me that rubbish. I know you were just trying to get into my head. Well, here's a news flash: It's not going to work!"

"Hmph."

"Hmph!"

There ensued a brief period of silence, in which Arthur fumed and Francis frowned.

"Look," Francis said with difficulty after a while. "I can see that you are upset about your car, so I will forgive all of your insults to me, and I will even pay for the repair - "

"Yes!" Arthur said immediately. "It was your fault! Of course you'll pay!"

"On one condition," Francis continued.

"Oh no," Arthur mumbled.

"Go out with me."

"WHAT?"

"You heard me."

"Why on earth would I go out with you? You've lost your mind."

"Well, if you don't, I won't pay for the repairs." Francis smiled. "I'd say yes if I were you."

"But you're not me, and you don't tell me what to do," Arthur said furiously. "I won't go out with you, no matter what. It's out of the question."

"Are you sure? I'm offering to pay for your fender, your paint job, and dinner. A _nice _dinner." He paused. "I'm not asking you to go out with me and be a couple, necessarily. I'm asking you to go out with me on one date and give me a chance."

Arthur stared at him, stunned. "That sounded frighteningly genuine."

"Frightening?"

"Frightening. As in, I am frightened by how easily I nearly believed your _lies_."

"Arthur." Francis' voice became hard, his easygoing manner dissolved behind cobalt eyes. "This should not be a very hard decision. It is not a trick question. I want you to cease being so difficult for once in your life and just _agree_."

"So you're serious," Arthur murmured after a moment, fidgeting awkwardly. "You're seriously asking me out on a date?"

"Yes," Francis said testily.

"I - have you forgotten the past _decade_? The past _two_? I mean, I just - this is very . . . sudden." Unable to look the other man in the eye, Arthur settled for fixing his gaze on Francis' shoulder. He couldn't help but register that it was a rather nice shoulder, and he immediately cursed himself for thinking so and banished the thought.

"I haven't forgotten anything," Francis said quietly. "And I would be lying if I said that I was willing to forget the past. But there is nothing to be gained by refusing to move forward and constantly repeating old mistakes, is there?"

"What if moving forward is a mistake as well?" Arthur asked. His eyes darted from the shoulder to the collarbone, danced from the chin to the lips to the cheek.

"We won't know until we try." Francis' light, teasing voice was back. "So what do you say?"

"Was that there before?" Arthur blurted suddenly. He'd caught sight of a scratch marring Francis' cheek that he was sure hadn't been there earlier - could it have resulted from the crash?

"What?"

"That scratch - on your cheek. Was it there? Before . . . you know."

Francis patted the area gingerly with one hand. "Hmm. No, I don't believe it was."

"Oh." Looking embarrassed, Arthur dug around in his pocket for a minute before pulling out a slightly creased band aid. "Here."

"Thanks," Francis said, surprised. "You carry these around with you?"

"Well. Old habits die hard," Arthur said with a shrug and a blush.

"Indeed." Francis carefully applied the bandage to his face. "Thank you, nonetheless. I didn't think I was worthy of any kind of treatment in your book."

"It's the least I could do," Arthur said. "You are paying for my car repairs and treating me to dinner, after all."

A slow grin crept across Francis' face, and Arthur pointedly looked away.

"Marvelous! So, are you free Friday night?"

* * *

Spain hummed happily to himself as he dialed Lovino's phone number. This was going to be so easy, so _ridiculously _easy, that there was no point in competing at all. Really, Francis should have known better than to assign him to the guy he'd secretly wanted to fuck for six years now . . . this was very nearly a natural development. Ah, well, Antonio thought; Francis' loss.

"Hello?"

Antonio beamed at the sound of that familiar, endearingly gruff voice. "Lovi! How are you?"

"Fine, and what do you care?"

"Oh, Lovi, don't be mad that I haven't come to see you lately . . ."

"Why would I be mad about that? Shit, I could care less about how often you come here. In fact, the less frequently, the better."

"Don't be like that, Lovi. I think I'll come right now!"

"No!" Lovino's voice became panicked, rose in pitch. "No, no, no. Don't."

"Why not?" Antonio asked, amused.

"My - my, um - my - I have a guest. There's someone over here right now, so, uh, yeah, just don't come over."

"A guest? Oh, Lovi, is it a _girl_?" Antonio teased.

"_Who's that?"_

Antonio's blood froze at the sound of that voice in the background.

"It's no one," he heard Lovino say, and sudden, inexplicable anger coursed through him.

"Who are you talking to?" he asked, keeping his voice pleasant.

"My brother."

"Oh, is he home? Maybe I will come and visit, I haven't seen him in a while . . ."

"No - well, he's home, but he's leaving right now. So, maybe another time."

"Well, when can I come over to see you? Today?"

"Um . . ."

"Well, it'll be sometime soon."

"Sure. Whatever. I don't care."

"Okay, see you soon!"

"Bye."

Antonio hung up the phone, fist clenched, staring at the floor and wondering why Lovino was with Gilbert Beillschmidt.

* * *

"So they're not spending that much time together anymore?" Lovino said, scratching his nose idly. "Wonder what that means."

"Yeah. Well. If you ask me, it's like the calm before a storm," Gilbert said, plopping himself down onto Lovino's bed. Lovino scowled and got up.

"Don't think you can do whatever you want just because we're doing this, okay. There is a line. And being on the same bed together? Is crossing that line."

Gilbert snorted. "What'd you think, that I was gonna _rape _you or something?"

"With you, nothing is impossible!"

Before Gilbert could retort, the doorbell rang.

"Oh, shit," Lovino murmured. "That idiot - he didn't _actually_ - "

"Okay, just run off without explaining," Gilbert called as Lovino sprinted for the door. "That's fine. That's cool. Yeah, I'm down with that."

* * *

"You!" Lovino exclaimed, aghast.

Antonio frowned. "What a warm welcome."

"Who invited you?" Lovino groaned. "Didn't I say not to come?"

Antonio had known not to set his expectations too high, but really, this was downright discouraging. Lovino was shifting uncomfortably from side to side, looking as though he were tensing to tackle Antonio should he attempt to enter the apartment. His eyes were locked warily on Antonio's and brimming with mistrust.

"Lovi," Antonio said gently. "I'm not going to hurt you. Please stop looking at me like that."

"I - like what?"

"Like I'm going to bite you."

"I'm not looking at you like anything! I just don't want you here. You're too pushy, damn it! Didn't I say not to come? Didn't I tell you?"

"But you sounded just a bit unwell," Antonio pressed, "so I wanted to come and see you."

"Don't give me that bullshit. You wanted to scope out who I'm hanging out with."

Antonio smiled. "Guilty as charged."

"And you don't even deny it? How fucking shameless are you? You're not my _dad_, okay? You don't get to tell me who I can be friends with, and you don't get to boss me around, you just don't get to have any say in my life!"

"I don't want to be your dad," Antonio said. "Not even close. But I want to have a say in your life."

"Well, you don't fucking get one."

"Mm. Too bad," Antonio replied cheerfully. "Gilbert! Come on out! I know you're in there - "

Lovino leapt forward and cupped a desperate hand over Antonio's mouth. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he hissed. "What makes you think it's - "

"Oh, hey, Antonio. What're you doing here?" The albino appeared in the hallway,

"I could ask the same of you."

"Well, it's just that me and Lovino are kind of - "

"We're going out," Lovino interrupted. "Since yesterday."

Antonio thought his heart might explode. He hadn't known it was possible for words to make his chest hurt this much - tight and aching and punctuated by quick, throbbing heartbeats.

Gilbert scratched his head. "Lovino, this is Antonio. Don't you think we should tell him . . . you know?"

"That we had sex? Absolutely. He should know. He wants to be all _involved_, after all."

Suddenly Antonio wanted nothing more than to be anywhere but here. Everything would be better if he were just gone, just somewhere else, because Lovino was glaring defiantly at him and Gilbert was looking more than a little confused, but all Antonio could see was the inside of his eyelids; whenever he couldn't handle something, he closed his eyes, and he most definitely could not handle this.

"I - I'm sorry," he whispered, suddenly certain that he was going to break down in tears. "I have to go."

* * *

"ANTONIO!"

Feliciano's shrill wail filled his ears as soon as he'd answered his phone.

"What is it, Feli?" he asked wearily. He'd only arrived back home a little while ago, and was not at all in the mood to deal with the younger of the Vargas brothers. He could hardly handle the older one, after all.

"It's Ludwig!"

Antonio sighed.

"He's just - I was trying to do what you told me," Feliciano continued, "and I wanted to surprise him so I went there, and then Gilbert had just gotten home, and they were talking, and they were talking about me - and - and - "

"And _what_?"

"And Ludwig said that I was only good to have around for making him food!" Feliciano sobbed. "He really said that! He - and I thought - I thought we were _friends_ - "

"Okay, calm down, Feli. Was this just now?"

"Yes, and he _said _that, how could he just _say _something like that - ?"

"Alright, Feli. Listen. Maybe he did say something like that, but he was talking to his brother, right? So maybe you just heard it out of context - like they were comparing you and Lovi, and Ludwig said you were better at cooking . . .?"

"No, you don't understand. I heard exactly what he said: 'Feliciano is only worth keeping around for the food he makes.' That's just what he said." He gave a small sniffle. "There wasn't anything about my brother. Why would they be talking about Lovino anyways?"

"Well, he _is _going out with Gilbert - "

"HE'S WHAT?"

"I take it you didn't know, then?"

"Ohh, this is even worse - I'm sorry, I have to call my brother now."

With an abrupt click, Antonio was left with an empty dial tone.

* * *

"The plan backfired," Lovino said glumly, holding his cell phone listlessly in one hand.

"What?"

"Feliciano found out about us. And he was _really _upset. Damn."

"Ha! I told you! I so told you," Gilbert gloated.

"He said, Don't you know better than to get involved with that man? And I said, What do you care, I thought you'd be happy for us anyway. And he said, No, you shouldn't be with him, you better break up. I said, But you have a crush on his brother, I thought you'd approve. And he said, But they're not trustworthy, those Beillschmidts, so break up with him before he breaks your heart."

" . . . What the hell?"

"I know. I don't know what happened, but he sounded really, really unhappy."

"Maybe West will know."

"Probably." Lovino sighed. "It's probably all his fault."

"It's weird, though, because just a little while ago, like as soon as I got home, West was telling me how much he really liked Feliciano, and I thought _my _plan was backfiring, but I guess not." He snickered. "Didn't I call it? Didn't I tell you that if we got together, it'd guarantee that they'd stay apart?"

"You're kind of a bastard," Lovino remarked. "If your brother really likes mine, don't you want them to get together and be happy?"

"Not if it means Feliciano moves in here and I have to move out!"

"Selfish."

"You're one to talk! You only want them to get together so you can have that apartment to yourself."

"That is not _why _I want them to get together."

"Yeah. Sure."

"It's just a _perk_."

"Well, doesn't matter, 'cause my plan worked and yours didn't. So there."

"Shut up. Mine was gonna work. If Feliciano had just not been in a bad mood when he found out about us, he would've seen it as a sign to get with that potato bastard, definitely . . ."

"But no matter what, as soon as Ludwig finds out about us, he'll flip a shit and realize what a bad idea it is to date an Italian."

"It doesn't matter, though, 'cause . . . there is no more us, is there?"

"Isn't there?"

"Well, my plan was ruined. No reason for us to be 'going out' anymore."

"I guess you're right . . ."

"This was kind of stupid."

"Yeah. Well, whatever, it worked for me." Gilbert laughed. "Oh, and by the way. Why did you tell Antonio we had sex? I mean, what the fuck?"

"I don't know," Lovino said. "I just . . . he was pissing me off. It was like he wanted to be in control of me again."

"So it was you being a rebellious teenager. Interesting."

Lovino was about to snap back at him, but he was struck by a sudden realization. "Oh, SHIT."

"What now?"

"It was Antonio! He told Feli!"

"Huh?"

"He was the only one who knew . . . shit, this is all his fault!"

"Remind me to thank him, then."

But Lovino had already hung up; even as Gilbert realized it, the brunet was walking out the door and mentally preparing himself for a visit to Antonio.

* * *

**a/n: So much for school kicking my ass, I guess I'd just rather write this than do homework lol. Feels like I kind of just churned this one out, though, so I'm sorry for any mistakes. Also, sorry if it's really confusing . . . it'll be more understandable by the end, I hope.**

**Oh, and this all is happening before the events in part 1. **

**At the moment, looks like another two chapters for part 2... and I'm questioning whether or not it will ever actually get 'mature'... orz**


	7. 2,3

Feliciano couldn't stand this feeling. He thought his chest might cave in on itself, it hurt so bad - was this why they called it heartbreak?

He hadn't meant to eavesdrop on Ludwig and Gilbert. It had just happened. And now, sitting here, curled up on a damp park bench in the chill of dusk, he was regretting ever going to visit Ludwig in the first place. It was just so unfair! Feliciano had never had anything but good intentions and nice things to say about Ludwig - and the other man had just stabbed him in the back, simple as that.

"Feliciano! What are you doing here?"

The Italian sat straight up and whirled around to see the one person he would have given anything to avoid.

"And why aren't you wearing a coat? Honestly, it's not summer anymore, you know . . ." Ludwig strode over, a characteristic frown on his face.

"I . . ."

"I just can't leave you alone, can I?" Heaving a sigh, Ludwig slipped off his own coat and draped it over Feliciano's shoulders. "Come on, let's get you home."

"N - no." Feliciano crossed his arms and settled firmly into the bench seat.

"Hmm?" Ludwig raised an eyebrow.

"I - I don't want someone who doesn't even want to be my friend take me home!"

". . . What are you talking about?"

"You don't even think of me as a friend! So I - I also don't want to be your friend!"

"What are you going on about now?" Ludwig asked. "Is this something to do with pasta again?"

"No - well, yes!"

"What's with this recent bout of insecurity? Didn't you ask me last week if we were really friends?"

". . . Yes, but . . ."

"And didn't I say yes?"

"Yes, but . . ."

"So what's the problem? You get the silliest ideas, I swear - "

"YOU LIED!" Feliciano cried. "You lied when you said that we were friends! Because I heard you when you were talking to Gilbert, and you said I was only good to have around to do cooking, so that means you really don't like me, which means we're not friends, so I don't want to see you ever again because it hurts - "

"Feliciano," Ludwig said sternly. "You were eavesdropping on me?"

"No," he said defensively. "I mean, not on _purpose_ . . ."

"Well. I can tell you that this is all a misunderstanding, all right?" He crossed his arms. "If you'd heard the whole conversation . . . speaking of which, how much did you hear?"

"Well . . . just the part about how I'm only good to have around for food . . ."

Ludwig groaned. "Feliciano . . . this is a misunderstanding. I didn't say that I only liked you for your food. . ."

* * *

_"West! I'm home!"_

_"Hey. I'm heating up some wurst, you want?"_

_"You bet your ass I do. Hit me with a beer, too."_

_"Get your own!"_

_"Ugh. You should be nicer to your older brother, you know that?"_

_"You should be nicer to me, then."_

_". . . Nah."_

_"Exactly."_

_"Oh, hey, West. What's with that flyer for the gay bar I found?"_

_"Oh, that. Er, I just . . . a friend gave it to me. It was a mistake, of course. I would never - "_

_"It was Feli, wasn't it?"_

_". . . Yes."_

_"Knew it. Why do you put up with him, really? I mean, I guess he's kind of cute. If you swing that way. But other than that . . ."_

_"I know what you mean . . . but . . . although there are times when I think Feliciano is only worth keeping around for the food he makes . . . it's just . . . there's something about him that just . . . I can't push him away. He may be clumsy, and careless, and stupid, and whiny, and annoying but . . . he is also very open and honest, and he tries to do the right thing, always, and he tries to be a good person, and he is really very kind. And, uh, well, like you said . . . he's not exactly hard on the eyes."_

_"God, West. Do you seriously like him like that?"_

_". . . Maybe."_

_"Oh hold up. Don't tell me that's why you asked me where Francis was the other day."_

_"What?"_

_"When you were looking for Francis . . . I mean, you normally can't stand him, and yet you were actually seeking him out . . . please don't tell me you were going to him for love advice."_

_". . ."_

_"Oh COME ON, West! I am your big brother! You couldn't just ask me? What is wrong with you?"_

_"But you're straight! How would you know anything?"_

_"How do you know I'm straight? Huh?"_

_"Because I do. Because you've been lusting after our cousin's wife since forever."_

_"Yeah, well . . . how do you know I don't suddenly have a boyfriend now? Who happens to be someone that we both know - "_

_"Because you don't. Look, Gilbert, thanks for offering to give me advice, but I don't want to hear it. I'm going to make this work without your help."_

_

* * *

_

"So you see," Ludwig concluded, "if you'd just stayed to hear the whole conversation . . ."

"You really do like me!" Feliciano cried joyfully. "Oh, I'm so happy!"

He sprang up from the bench and hugged Ludwig tightly.

"Yes," Ludwig murmured, "I really do like you." Tentatively, he wrapped his muscular arms around Feliciano; the latter seemed to take this as a cue to nestle in tighter.

"Um," Ludwig said. Feliciano could feel the vibrations of the deep voice in the center of the deep chest, and he grinned; only a minute ago he'd been convinced that he would never again be able to be close to Ludwig like this, and now - !

"How much do you like me?" Feliciano pressed.

"Uh," Ludwig said.

"Hmm?"

"Well, I like you, of course," Ludwig stammered. "Um, you know . . ."

"Do you like me as much as I like you?"

"I - I suppose so . . ."

"So you like me a lot?"

"Yes . . ."

"I'm glad." Feliciano tipped his head back to gaze up at Ludwig. "So - "

"I really think we ought to get you home," Ludwig interrupted. Disentangling himself from the Italian's grip, he ruffled his hair. "Now that everything's cleared up, you don't have any objection to my walking you home?"

"Well, no," Feliciano said, disappointed. "But it's just - "

"Or - well - you could come with me while I do my grocery shopping. That's why I'm out and about, after all." He shrugged. "An extra pair of hands would be helpful."

"And - and could I come over to your house afterward?" Feliciano asked hopefully.

"Of course."

Feliciano beamed. "Well, then what are we waiting for! Let's go!"

* * *

"ANTONIO!" Lovino pounded relentlessly on the door. "Open the fuck up!"

The sound of that voice was enough to rouse Antonio; he'd been dozing off at his kitchen table, a mug of hot cocoa half-empty and cold in front of him, but now he stood up immediately and went to the door. He closed his hand on the handle, then hesitated.

"Open up, damn it!" Lovino yelled.

"Why should I?" Antonio asked softly.

"So I can come in, why else?"

"But why should I let you in?"

"Hey. You bothered me first, okay. So don't start complaining now, 'cause I'm just returning the favor." He huffed. "You wanted to talk earlier, you won't even look at me now. What gives?"

"I wanted to talk before I knew you were dating my friend." Just saying the words hurt - Antonio squeezed his shirt at the center of his chest, steadying himself.

"So how about now that I'm not dating your friend anymore? You wanna talk now?"

The door swung open; Antonio, pale-faced, reached forward and took Lovino by the arm.

"Why?" he asked in a low voice, his fingers biting into Lovino's flesh. "Why'd you do that?"

"Jesus, let go of me!" Lovino yelped, prying himself loose. "Why d'you think I came over here? I'm gonna explain, damn it! Calm the fuck down, will you?"

"No!" Antonio said. He wasn't calm, wasn't _capable _of calming down, wasn't himself. "I - you just - I thought I'd never - "

"IT WASN'T FOR REAL!" Lovino bellowed. "We weren't really dating, and we didn't really have sex, so will you _please _shut the fuck up and let me talk!"

"You - ?"

Lovino glared at him and led the way to Antonio's living room. "I'll explain. Douchebag."

* * *

_"Hello?"_

_"Yo, Lovino?"_

_"Uh, who's this?"_

_"It's Gilbert."_

_"Gilbert who?"_

_"Gilbert Beillschmidt! Awesome older brother of Ludwig? Creamy white skin, blood red eyes, dashingly silver hair? Ringin' any bells?"_

_"Oh, crazy albino kraut."_

_"You mean crazy _awesome _albino kickass dude!"_

_"No, I meant what I said. So what's up?"_

_"Oh, I was calling about our brothers."_

_"What about them?"_

_"Well . . . they're getting a little too close for my tastes, lately."_

_"So?"_

_"So we should do something about it!"_

_"Why?"_

_"Because I don't want them to . . . you know. Be together."_

_"Why not?"_

_"Well. I mean, my brother is such a good, hardworking guy, and yours is just . . . unreliable. They'd be so bad together. And Feliciano'd probably run around with other guys or maybe other girls, 'cause he just loves to flirt, and then West would be really bummed out. And since we live together I'd be the one who'd have to cheer him up, and well, since he's pretty much my responsibility anyway, why not make sure the whole mess never even happens?"_

_"Bullshit."_

_"What?"_

_"You're talking bullshit. You don't give a damn whether or not they're happy together. There's some other reason."_

_"I don't know what you're talking about, I'm a good older brother - "_

_"BULLSHIT. Come on, you're the worst older brother I've ever seen, what's your real reason for wanting them apart?"_

_". . . You're so harsh, man. Alright, so maybe I just don't want Feliciano to move in here."_

_"Yeah, I had a feeling it'd be something like that."_

_"Well, can you blame me? It's always been me and West, just livin' like bros, and if Feliciano moved in . . . well, it'd just be ruined for one thing, and for another I might have to actually move out!"_

_"What's to stop those two from getting their own apartment?"_

_"My dad. He says if anyone's gonna move out it should be me. He's always favored West . . ."_

_"Hmm. Well, sucks for you. But what makes you think I share this opinion?"_

_"Huh?"_

_"I don't want them to stay apart. I want them to get together."_

_"What the hell? Why?"_

_"You're complaining that you don't want Feliciano to move in with you two. Well, I'm living with him right now. And let me tell you, he is obsessed with the blond kraut big time. He just will not shut up about Ludwig this, Ludwig that . . . and I, unlike you, actually want what's best for my little brother. So if he wants to move in with Ludwig, who am I to stop him?"_

_". . . So basically, you want to have that apartment to yourself?"_

_"Basically."_

_"Ugh. Well you're no help. I was gonna suggest, why don't you and I pretend to be together, and be like the worst couple ever, and then scare those two into not going out so they wouldn't end up like us."_

_"That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard."_

_"Hey, it's a start, okay? I seriously think they'd be terrified of going out if they saw us together."_

_"Are you kidding me? If Feliciano saw us together, he'd be overjoyed. He'd say, 'Oh, you've finally realized how nice those brothers are! Let's have a double date!'"_

_"I shudder at the thought."_

_"Same. But if anything, seeing us together would get them together faster, not break them apart."_

_"Okay, you know what? If you really think that . . . let's go out! I'll prove you wrong!"_

_"Sure. You're the one who's wrong, anyway, so I have nothing to lose."_

_"Cool. Man, as soon as West finds out - "_

_"Don't tell him yet, though."_

_"Why not?"_

_"Let's tell them when they're together, and then we'll see the immediate effect."_

_"Yeah, okay."_

_"Prepare yourself for a new housemate. A fluffy new housemate. Named Feliciano. Ahh, I'll finally be able to get laid~"_

_"What? We're not doing that!"_

_"I didn't mean with you, dumbass. I've just never been able to take anyone home with me with Feliciano around . . ."_

_"Oh, right. Good. 'Cause, no offense or anything, but there is no way I'd ever sleep with you . . ."_

_"Same."_

_"Good - hey, what the hell? You don't want to sleep with me?"_

_"Nah, you probably suck in bed. Plus . . . aren't you straight?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"Although I've never actually seen you with a girl . . ."_

_"There's only one girl for me. And she's taken."_

_". . . I see."_

_"So don't worry. This relationship definitely won't become real."_

* * *

"It was just kind of a bet," Lovino concluded, running a hand through his hair. "I thought if we were together it'd make Feliciano and Ludwig get together faster, he thought it'd be the opposite. And if you think of it like a bet, then the prize the winner gets is not having to live with Feliciano."

Antonio slumped backwards into his couch; throughout the entirety of Lovino's rapid, confusing narrative, he'd been on the edge of his seat, brows knit and mouth drawn into a tense line. Now he felt like shouting with relief, though he opted instead to simply beam radiantly at Lovino. His boneless limbs were loose with the giddiness that coursed through him, but not for one moment did he stop to think about why exactly he was so happy.

"So that's what happened," Lovino said. "And no one but Feliciano and Ludwig were ever supposed to know about this little fake relationship me and Gilbert had."

The haze of euphoria cleared a bit. "Uhh . . ."

"And for some reason, I don't know why, I stupidly chose to tell you. And then you, I don't even . . . you fucking told my brother."

"Er . . . see, about that - "

"And then he basically said to me that he never wanted to associate with Ludwig ever again."

"That . . . actually has an explanation," Antonio said meekly. "I mean, it doesn't really have to do with you and Gilbert. He was upset because he was afraid Ludwig didn't really like him . . . I don't think he was right . . . but then, I don't remember, I guess it kind of slipped out that you two - "

Lovino sighed. "Okay, whatever."

There was a long stretch of silence.

"So . . . are you mad at me or not?" Antonio said finally.

"Mad?" Lovino seemed almost startled by the question. "Well it was just a bet."

"Just a . . ." Antonio gasped. He sat straight up. "Oh, Lovi. A bet. Of course! Ah, but it was _just_ a bet? I'm sure you still want to win it, though?"

"I already lost, dumbass."

"But you could still get your brother to move in with Ludwig, potentially, no?"

"I guess . . ."

"Well. I made you lose the original bet, what do you say I help you win it back?"

Lovino narrowed his eyes. "What's . . . why?"

"Oh, just to undo the damage I've done." Antonio's eyes were sparkling, and he rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

"You've got some other motive, don't you?" Lovino said. He pointed an accusatory finger. "You just want to get some kind of revenge on Gilbert!"

"Oh, no, that's not it at all!"

"Then what?"

"Well . . . I was just hoping you might be able to help me out with a bet of my own," Antonio said hesitantly. His heart began to beat faster. "It's between me and Francis."

"Ugh. It's probably something perverted," Lovino said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Count me the fuck out."

"Lovi, please," Antonio pleaded. "I just need you to help me with one thing, for one night. And in return I'll help you get Feli and Ludwig together."

"What is it that you need me for?" Lovino asked suspiciously.

"Nothing too strenuous," Antonio said with a nervous laugh. _Liar_, he thought.

"And nothing too perverted?"

"It's fine, I promise!" Lies.

"So why won't you tell me?"

"It's a surprise, Lovi. It's part of the bet that I can't tell you beforehand." Lies.

"Okay, I'm not fucking doing anything until you get those two together. Then we can talk. Maybe." Lovino crossed his arms.

"Oh, excellent! I'm so glad!" Truth. "You won't regret this, Lovi!" Lies. Antonio gave an internal cringe, hoping he wasn't digging himself into too deep of a hole here.

"I better not."

* * *

**a/n: fudgemonkeys this is so late. I actually wrote it a while ago, but I felt it wasn't complete, so I wanted to write more...but when that clearly wasn't happening, I figured I'd just post this sorry excuse for a chapter before November (aka tomorrow) rolled around, thus marking the beginning of Nanowrimo. Yes, there will be probably no updates until December. Sorry about that.**

**But regardless of whether or not you're following this story, or just read through it quickly, or whatever... thank you so much for reading this far! And thank you for reviewing. I'm sorry I haven't had as much time as I would have liked to work on this story... and I'm really impatient to write the last part orz... but yeah, thanks! :D**

**and I miss Francis and Arthur lol.**


	8. 2,4

"Today," Francis announced grandly to Antonio over the phone, "is a glorious day."

"Why, what day is it?"

"It's Friday."

". . . So?"

"Oh, but not just any Friday."

Antonio gave an audible sigh at Francis' dramatics. "Go on."

"Today - or rather, _tonight_ - is the Friday I, Francis Bonnefoy, am going to get laid!"

"Stop joking," Antonio said at once. "You can't be talking about Arthur?"

"Oh, but I am," Francis laughed. "How I would love to see your face right now. Are you surprised? I thought you knew me better than that."

"Well," Antonio hedged. He had badly underestimated his opponent - he might have to step things up a bit from here. He thought hard about Lovino as he spoke. "I thought I did, too. Tell, me: exactly how did you do it?"

"Oh, well, I - "

"I mean, how much cash did you have to put up? How much did you have to pay to get him to do this?"

"_Pay_?" Francis spluttered. "Why - that uncultured Brit was _eager _to agree - "

"In that case," Antonio interrupted, "how many bruises do you have? How many times did he hit you before he said yes?"

"Hmph!" Francis snorted into the phone. "We'll see who's laughing when I've _won_, won't we?"

"No," Antonio corrected. "We'll see who's laughing when _I've _won."

Francis hung up with a huff.

* * *

Lovino received two text messages on Friday morning. The first: "Hey! i'm picking you up 7. meet me in front of your apartment."

The second: "& dress nice."

* * *

"Arthur," Francis sang as he strolled into the Brit's office. "Are you excited for tonight?"

"Shut up," Arthur hissed. "Someone might hear you!"

"Oh, like I care," Francis scoffed. "Let them!"

"I care," Arthur snapped. "Get out. I mean it."

"I just want to settle the details for" - he lowered his voice at a glare from Arthur - "our date. We'll go to this nice place I found - and before you ask, it isn't French. So you're not allowed to be offended. When do you get off work?"

"Should be around five," Arthur mumbled through gritted teeth, staring determinedly at the glowing screen of his monitor.

"Lovely. So you go home, change, and I'll come by at around, say, six-thirty?"

"Whatever."

"You must be such a joy to work with," Francis commented, crossing his arms and grinning. "I'm sorry we're not in the same department."

"Why, so you'd have more opportunities to harass me?" Arthur shot back.

"Must you always jump to the wrong conclusions?"

"Must you always deny your perverse actions?"

"You are the perverse one, you know that? Saying all these mean things to me during the day when you know that at night, you want nothing more than to - "

"Oh, silly me, you're right. I forgot. You're not perverse so much as you are _perverted_."

There was a knock on the door, cutting off Francis' response.

"Kirkland," boomed Wilhelm Beillschmidt in his deep voice. "Have you finished the summary I asked for?"

"Mm, nearly there," Arthur said, turning red. "I'll send it over by noon."

Francis took the opportunity to scurry off, sending Arthur a wink over his shoulder and causing the flustered Englishman to turn even redder.

* * *

Antonio liked dates. They were good occasions to dress up and act gentlemanly eat food and have fun. There was an exciting, tingly air about dates that he simply adored.

Also, they usually led to sex. And he _did _like sex.

"Lovi," he said as they were led to their table in the crowded, dimly lit restaurant. "Have I mentioned how cute you look?"

"Only about twenty times, you dumb fuck," Lovino muttered. "What the hell is this, anyway? Why are we here?"

"Didn't I tell you? It's a bet between me and Francis," Antonio said absently, sliding into the soft cushion of a candlelit corner booth. "Order anything you like, this is my treat."

Lovino perused the menu in stony-faced silence. Finally, he set it down and looked Antonio straight in the eye. "Hey. This isn't a fucking date, is it?"

Antonio frowned. "Now, Lovi. I just told you that this is a bet."

"But - "

"And even if it were a date," he continued, leaning forward and smiling hopefully, "what would be so horrible about that?"

"Well - I - "

"And don't say it's because you don't date men. Because I know you do."

"I just - well, it's _you_!" Lovino said helplessly, waving his arms at Antonio. "You're - I can't date _you_!"

"No?" This could present a problem. "Why not?"

"It's - it's impossible," Lovino said, sinking low into his seat and blushing.

"Am I not your type, or what?" Antonio pushed.

"That's not it!"

"Then . . . tell me!"

"It's just too weird," Lovino mumbled, blushing harder.

"Weird?"

"Well, yeah. You've seen me naked!"

It was then that their waiter chose to appear. Unlike blushing, writhing Lovino, he remained completely composed, merely setting down two glasses of ice water and asking in a soft, unhurried voice, whether they were ready to order.

"No, thanks," Antonio said with a smile. The waiter nodded and moved on.

"Shit," Lovino whispered. "Shit, that's embarrassing."

"It's fine," Antonio said dismissively. "You're so cute."

"That!" Lovino cried, sitting up. "That's why I can't go on a date with you!"

"Because you're cute? Oh, Lovi. There's nothing wrong with being cute - it's a _good _thing."

"No, stupid. Because you only see me as cute little baby brother Lovino from ten years ago, and all you want to do is just pinch my cheeks and feed me sliced tomatoes and treat me like a _child_!"

There was a brief pause.

"Oh." Antonio marveled at how heated Lovi's cheeks had become. Was that_ steam_ rising from his face? "Oh, Lovi."

"So that's why . . ." Lovino mumbled, burying his head in his arms. "Shit, that was even more embarrassing."

"Maybe I should make something clear," Antonio said. "Do you remember when you were fifteen? And you had that dream, and I had to clean your sheets - ?"

"I remember," Lovino said hastily. "God, don't remind me."

"That was the last time I thought of you as a child."

Lovino shuddered. "I don't know if I should be happy or disgusted by that."

"You should be happy," Antonio chided playfully. "It means I put more trust in you as a person! Now, back to my original question: why exactly would you have a problem with dating me?"

Lovino eyed him warily. "This is hypothetical, right?"

"Uh . . . right."

"I guess I wouldn't really have a problem . . ." Lovino said, eyes glued to his lap. "I mean, since it'd never happen, I might as well say that, hypothetically, yeah, I'd date you."

"REALLY?"

Lovino stared. "Hypothetically."

"Yes. Hypothetically, yeah. Yeah, of course." Antonio could hardly contain his excitement. He knew Lovino well enough to know that agreeing to a hypothetical date was as good as a confession of love. Oh, this was a dream come true! His little Lovi was finally, _finally_, after six long years, his! Or at least, he would be soon. All that remained was getting Lovi to say that he wanted to be with Antonio in a non-hypothetical sense, and then the possibilities were endless. They could go to Spain! Antonio knew Lovino would love Spain. They could go to Italy, too . . . Antonio didn't mind Italy in the least, especially knowing that it was the birthplace of his darling Lovi . . .

"Uh," Lovino said, interrupting Antonio's reverie. "So, why were you asking me this hypothetical question?"

"Mm," Antonio said lazily. "I wanted an answer to save for another time."

No.

No, wait.

He didn't _have _time.

Wasn't he doing this for the bet? Wasn't he taking Lovino out tonight specifically for the purpose of taking him home later? He had to sleep with him. His pride wouldn't have it any other way.

They could go to Spain later.

"But, of course, Lovi," he continued. "You know me. I'm not a terribly patient man."

Confused, Lovino opened and closed his mouth once. "Are you . . . what are you saying?"

"I don't want to wait for another time," Antonio began. Then another thought struck him.

If they slept together tonight . . . would Lovino even stick around? Handling Lovi was a delicate art. A single misstep could be disastrous. Winning the bet might very well cost him this potential relationship with Lovino. Antonio bit his lip. He didn't want that. He definitely didn't want that.

"What the fuck are you trying to say?" Lovino asked, his voice dangerous.

To hell with it.

"There's been a new development in the bet," Antonio announced. "We've got to go now."

"What? Why? What d'you mean, a new development?"

"We're skipping dinner." Antonio stood up and grabbed Lovino by the arm, tugging him along. "Let's go."

"But I'm hungry!" Lovino protested.

"We can eat a little later," Antonio promised. "Right now we're going to my apartment."

"Why?"

"You'll see."

The cab ride was all too long, in Antonio's opinion. He kept crossing and uncrossing his legs and tapping his fingers impatiently on the worn upholstery of the back seat, and Lovino was beginning to look at him strangely. Antonio could only grin in response. He was nervous, of course - what if Lovi resisted? What if he rejected him? But his anxiety was overruled by his eager anticipation. _This was it_. This was the night he'd been waiting for. When the cab pulled up in front of his apartment building he shoved a wad of bills at the driver and practically dragged Lovino out.

"What's the big fucking hurry?" Lovino yelped.

"Nothing, nothing," Antonio said, unable to restrain his wide smile.

"Hey," Lovino said suddenly. "Francis isn't, like, _here_, is he?"

"Of course not," Antonio said. "Come on. Let's go up."

The elevator was too slow in responding to Antonio's frantic jabbing of the button, so he took Lovino by the hand and led him up the stairs. By the time they got to his floor, they were both panting from the exertion, and Antonio couldn't help but notice a light sheen of sweat on Lovino's face.

"You wanna explain why we just _ran _up seven flights of stairs?" Lovino demanded.

Antonio fumbled with his keys. "I'd rather show you . . ."

The door swung open at last, and Antonio pulled Lovino through it, shutting the door firmly behind them.

"What the hell?" Lovino began, before Antonio silenced him with his lips.

It wasn't quite as sweet and harmonious as Antonio had hoped their first kiss would be. They were supposed to pull apart after a long embrace, look into each other's eyes, smile, and move back in to deepen the kiss. That was how it was done in the movies, certainly.

Instead of adhering to Antonio's oft-replayed fantasy, Lovino pulled back immediately, covering his lips, eyes wide with shock, and shoved Antonio away from him.

Clearly, Lovino didn't watch enough movies.

"Who do you think you - what the _fuck _was that?" Lovino shouted. He turned to leave, but Antonio reached past him and prevented him from turning the door knob.

"Lovi, let me just - "

"What? Let you what? Explain? What's there to explain?" Lovino glared accusingly. "You fucking pedophile! So this is what you've wanted from me all this time you've hung around with me. You're sick, you know that? Sick! Preying on an innocent kid, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I'm not preying on you!" Antonio exclaimed. "Aren't you twenty-one?"

"Well - " Lovino flushed. "I am now, but - "

"So what's wrong?" Antonio said softly. "I promise I'm not trying to prey on you, or take advantage of you, or anything. I just want you."

"Oh, right," Lovino scoffed. "_You _want _me._ Yeah fucking right."

"Would I lie about this?" Antonio said, wounded. He reached out to take Lovino's arm, which was promptly snatched away. "I mean it, Lovi. Give me one chance to show you how sincere I am."

"I'm not that easy!" Lovino exclaimed. "Jesus, don't rush me into something like this!"

"But is it really rushing?" Antonio pressed. He moved closer to Lovino, who was still breathing heavily. "Are you telling me you've never once wanted this? You've never hoped this might happen? Not once?"

"I - what, you think I have?" Lovino squawked indignantly.

"I know I have," Antonio purred.

"You're a fucking pervert."

"But aren't we friends, Lovi?"

"Well, I _thought _we were - "

"Are we or aren't we?"

"Yeah, we are, but - "

"Then indulge me. Do me this favor, as a friend." Antonio smiled. "Si?"

"No!" Lovino snapped.

Antonio's expression hardened. "Lovi, don't be like this."

Before Lovino could reply, a cheery jingle emanated from Antonio's coat pocket. Irritated, Antonio fished it out and silenced it without a glance. But Lovino caught his hand and eyed the screen.

"Who was that from?"

"I don't know," Antonio said testily. "I'm trying to talk to _you_, not whoever just texted me."

"Let me see," Lovino demanded. He pried the phone from Antonio's fingers and flipped it open. " 'One new message from Francis'," he read tonelessly. " 'You better fuck him fast. Otherwise I'm going to win tonight!' "

The color drained from Antonio's face; his shoulders drooped visibly, and he took a step backward from Lovino. He no longer sought to tame and seduce the younger man - now survival was the only thing on his mind.

"So," Lovino said in a dangerously silky voice, "That's what this bet was about? This has been a race to get laid?"

"Yes," Antonio whispered miserably. He closed his eyes. It would be better, he thought, if Lovi left now and spared him the blows that were sure to come. There was no point in denying anything or defending himself. Lovi, he knew, wouldn't care for explanations. He would be thirsting for blood.

But no blows came. Antonio cracked one eye open, to see Lovino staring at him with an unreadable expression.

"Er - do you want me to explain?" Antonio said in a tiny voice. "You see, there was this silly argument between me and Francis, and he thought that I couldn't get with you before he could get with Arthur, and so . . ."

"I don't care," Lovino interrupted. He stepped forward, making Antonio wince, and grabbed the older man's shoulder, steering him backwards, through the living room, and into the bedroom.

"Uh - Lovi? What are you - ?"

Lovino shoved him down onto the bed.

"You're really fucking dumb," he breathed, standing with his arms crossed over a dumbstruck Antonio. "A real fucking idiot."

"I know," Antonio managed. "But - "

"Just shut up, okay?" Lovino barked. "You're even dumber than my brother. So consider yourself lucky that I'm doing you this favor."

"Favor? You're - what?"

Lovino sighed and leaned forward, pressing his lips against Antonio's in a hard kiss. When he finally pulled back, running his tongue over his lips, his eyes were averted and his face beginning to heat up.

"_Lovi_?" Antonio choked, flabbergasted.

"I'm only doing this so you can win that stupid bet," Lovino mumbled. "'Cause I don't sleep with losers."

There was a beat of silence, and then Antonio's face split into a huge grin.

"Oh, Lovi," he breathed, before pulling Lovino down on top of him.

* * *

"There's no need for you to take me home," Arthur said. "I can make it there myself."

"You're drunk," Francis said gently. "It would be ungentlemanly of me to let you leave by yourself."

"You're not a gentleman!"

"Please stop insulting me. Gentleman or not, I know better than to let you loose in the street right now." He gestured with his cell phone at the cab in which they sat. "Hence, I'm taking you home."

"Fuck, no, you're not," Arthur grumbled, but to no avail; they were speeding through the lamplit streets with no signs of stopping.

"Ah. Here we are," Francis said, after what felt to Arthur like an unnecessarily long ride. "Home."

Arthur glared up at the tall apartment building in front of them. "This isn't where I live, stupid."

"Indeed not," Francis said pleasantly, sliding Arthur's hand into his own. "This is where I live."

"And what the fuck are we doing here?" Arthur asked. "I don't want to be here." Nonetheless he allowed Francis to pull him forward, into the lobby, into the elevator.

"Well, my dear. Before I answer your question, I have to know: How drunk are you, exactly?"

Arthur thought for a moment. Well, he wasn't so drunk as to have lost the capacity to think entirely. He was, however, drunk enough to look at Francis and like what he saw.

"Not terribly drunk, I'd say," he said tipsily, leaning back in the elevator and sagging against the wall a little.

Francis appraised him, unconvinced. "Hmm."

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, I'd just like to know how . . . willing you'll be, to go along with . . ." he trailed off. The Englishman clearly was not listening. Instead, he was engaged in a fierce glaring competition with the glowing orange button on the wall opposite him. With a sigh, Francis leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Arthur's lips.

"_Mon cher_. Please stay focused. I don't want you to become too distracted before we get through with tonight's main event."

Arthur licked his lips experimentally, frowning. "And what would that be?"

Francis kissed him again, harder now, running his hands through the other man's sandy blond hair.

"More of the same," he breathed.

"Ah," Arthur said breathlessly; the elevator dinged, signaling their arrival at Francis' floor. "In that case - " he jammed his thumb roughly at the L button on the wall " - I should really get going."

The doors slid open, and Francis tugged Arthur resolutely by the collar. "Come on! We've gotten this far, haven't we - ?"

"No!" Arthur yelled, falling flat on his back in his attempt to resist. By now they were already well into the hallway. "Let - go - of - me!"

Francis seized him by the ankles and began dragging him along the carpet towards his apartment, ignoring Arthur's frantic protests and glancing around to make sure no one was watching. Not that he really cared what people saw, but he didn't particularly want to get in trouble with his landlord.

"Ah!" he exclaimed when they had finally made it into his apartment.

"Bloody wanker!" Arthur shouted, scrambling to his feet as Francis locked the door. "I knew this was a bad idea - what, so you're going to rape me now? I'd like to see you try. I'll fucking rip your balls off."

"I'm not going to rape you," Francis said calmly, advancing on the wobbling Englishman. "I'm going to make love to you."

"Like hell you - mmph!" Before he could finish that thought, Arthur felt a pair of impossibly skilled lips caressing his own, and words left him. Suddenly, it became imperative that he wrap his legs around Francis' waist, and that he erase every particle of air between their bodies. Like this, with Francis' tongue teasing his collarbone, and Francis' hands wandering restlessly over his chest, and Francis' hips grinding a slow circle in time with his own, and his eyes squeezed tightly shut, it was easy to forget where he was and who he was with, and how he had gotten there. All that was really important, after all, was that these sensations didn't stop.

"Mm," Francis purred, pulling back for a moment. "You really are damn sexy."

"Shut your fucking mouth," Arthur growled. He noted absently that they had somehow ended up on Francis' bed.

"I can think of better things to do with my mouth," Francis whispered, clearly enjoying himself. "Would you like to hear them?"

Arthur did, but before he could say anything something in Francis' pocket vibrated, making him shriek.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded.

"Phone," Francis mumbled, making to toss it on the floor.

"Your phone is stupid," Arthur declared angrily, disentangling himself slightly from Francis. "A piece of shit. Give me that!"

"What? No!"

"Why not?"

"You're going to break it, aren't you?"

"Of course not. Now give it to me."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Why do you want it?"

"Are you hiding something?"

"No."

"Then just - " Arthur reached over swiftly " - _give _it to me!" He wrenched the phone from Francis' hand and opened it.

* * *

When their breathing had slowed a little, and they simply lay together, sweaty and spent, time began to have meaning again.

"Lovi," Antonio murmured. "Lovi, Lovi . . ."

"What?"

"I don't know," he laughed. "I'm just so happy right now!"

"Don't be so mushy," Lovino muttered, sitting up. "I told you already, I'm just helping you win your bet."

At that moment, Antonio's phone buzzed again.

"Don't," he warned softly.

"I'm just going to look," Lovino said. He opened the phone and raised an eyebrow. " 'You have mere minutes before I bang a fine piece of English ass.' Classy."

"Ignore him."

"Nah. I'm gonna reply," Lovino said viciously, typing furiously. Antonio listened for a few minutes as Lovino's thumbs flew in a flurry over the keypad.

"What are you writing?" he asked finally.

"Oh, nothing," Lovino said with a vindictive grin. He pressed 'Send.' "I'm hungry. Make me some food."

Antonio laughed. "Fine. If you stay the night."

"Huh?"

"It's my condition, take it or leave it."

Lovino hesitated. "I'll take it. But you better make me some fucking good food."

"I will," Antonio promised. "Believe me, I will."

* * *

"A new text message," exclaimed Arthur. "From Antonio. Let's read it, shall we?"

"Let's not," Francis said desperately. "You stupid Brit - give me back my fucking phone!"

There was no response.

"Arthur?"

Arthur's eyes were still fixed on the screen of the cell phone.

"You bastard," he said finally. "You complete fucking - " He stood, heaving the phone at Francis. "You son of a bitch!"

"What? What did I -?" Francis picked up the phone.

'_hey. bastard. yeah, you. so lovi and i totally had sex so you can fuck arthur all night long if you want to but i've STILL WON THE BET. that's right, i got into lovi's pants before you could get into mr. british wanker's, so I WIN and YOU LOSE. so ha. also, if you don't believe me ask lovi and he'll tell you how much he rocked my world.'_

"What the _fuck _is the meaning of this?" yelled Arthur. Francis was shocked to see that his eyes were red, as though he was about to cry.

"Must be Antonio's idea of a joke," he tried weakly.

"You nearly fucking fooled me, you know that? I almost went along with it - God! I'm an idiot. I'm an honest to God idiot. So this was a bet? Just a game to you? I should've known, huh? You fucking - I hate you!" Arthur spat.

"Wait - Arthur!" Francis stood, reaching an arm out to entreat him.

"No. No!" He backed blindly away. "Never again, you stupid, inconsiderate fucking son of a bitch."

As Arthur left, slamming the door behind him, Francis could only stand and stare blankly at his bedroom wall.

He'd really lost, hadn't he?

But more importantly - what was this hollow feeling in his chest? How could that scruffy, unrefined, bushy-browed little Brit possibly make him feel this hurt?

* * *

**a/n: O HAI AN UPDATE**

**Absolutely zero quality control on this chapter, but I really just wanted to finish the damn thing. So here it is, and the next one will probably be around Christmas (i.e, when school's out.)**

**yup. So thanks for reading, and if it's confusing... I'm sorry. lol maybe I'll go back and edit the whole thing so it makes sense when I'm completely finished orz**

**oh! and I won Nanowrimo! Go me! haha**


	9. 2,5

Sunlight poured through Antonio's window and infused the bedroom with warmth, illuminating Lovino's peaceful, sleeping face beautifully. Antonio, propped up on one elbow, smiled affectionately and reached over to stroke the younger man's cheek gently. He could hardly believe his luck - he'd managed to win both Lovino and the bet, everything going as smoothly as he could possibly ask. True, Lovino had resisted at first, but it had been nothing compared to what could have happened.

Everything was looking perfect and amazing on this blissful morning - until Antonio's cell phone rang.

With an obnoxiously loud vibrating sound, coupled with the flashy samba music, the phone sitting on the bedside table inches from Lovino's left ear emanated enough noise to cause the young man to wake up; he sat bolt upright and exclaimed, "What in the fucking hell is wrong with you, Feli, I'm trying to fucking sleep!"

"Lovi," Antonio began, alarmed, but Lovino had already flopped back down and buried his head beneath his pillow.

"Five more minutes," he whined, his voice muffled. "Fuck off, brother."

"Lovi, it's me," Antonio said, poking Lovino's shoulder. "Your brother is nowhere near here!"

But Lovino didn't respond. Lifting the pillow tentatively, Antonio discovered him to be sound asleep once more. Shaking his head and chuckling, he reached over to silence the phone, only to discover that it really had been Feliciano who had awaken Lovino; caller ID said so.

"Feli?" Antonio said, answering the call.

"Antonio!" came Feliciano's cheerful voice. "Today's the big day! Tonight's the big night!"

"Huh?"

"Don't you remember?" the little Italian chirped. Tonight I'm going over to Ludwig's for dinner! And you already gave me such good ideas - well, I was thinking, do you have any more?"

"Oh, Feli," Antonio said. "I think you're ready to handle this on your own now. Like you said, I already gave you many tips. I can't be your sex advice hotline forever."

"Oh," Feliciano said, sounding disappointed. "Okay. Well. There was one more thing, actually. I don't know where my brother is. He's not picking up his phone. He went out with you last night, right? Do you know where he is?"

"That," Antonio said firmly, "you don't need to worry about. Trust me, your brother is doing just fine."

"If you say so," Feliciano said.

"I do say so," Antonio replied. "Good luck tonight. Tell me how it goes tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay!"

"Bye, Feli."

"Bye!"

As Antonio hung up, Lovino flipped himself over.

"So you're my brother's sex advice hotline?"

"Kind of," Antonio said warily. "Were you awake that whole time?"

"Maybe. Are you helping him get into the blond kraut's pants?"

"Perhaps. And you're not mad?"

"That remains to be seen. Any particular reason why you're helping those two?"

"Possibly. You wanna just forget about this now and go have breakfast?"

Lovino sighed as his stomach rumbled. "Definitely."

* * *

Sunlight poured through Francis' window and filled the room with an uncomfortable heat, stabbing at the Frenchman's closed eyelids and causing him to roll off the couch and fall onto an empty beer bottle. Swearing under his breath, he righted himself and looked around.

Where was he? His own living room, that was fine. But why hadn't he slept in his bed last night? And why did his usually (moderately) clean apartment look like a hurricane had rolled through it?

Ugh, and why did his head hurt so god damn much?

Slowly, fuzzy memories of last night began to click into place. He recalled himself seducing Arthur, the Brit storming out angrily, and feeling incredibly hurt. After a moment of concentration he also remembered drinking to cheer himself up, which actually made him feel worse and worse, until finally at three-thirty AM he deemed it appropriate to completely trash his living room - so as to reflect his inner turmoil. He'd proclaimed it fine art. Then he'd collapsed onto the couch and passed out in a drunken stupor.

And now here he was with what was quite possibly the worst hangover he'd ever experienced.

He was about to make his way to the kitchen and attempt to fix himself breakfast when the cell phone in his pocket began to ring, seeming, to Francis' headache, to screech at unheard of decibel levels. He picked up quickly.

"What in the fuck do you want this early on a fucking Sunday morning," he snarled.

"It's me," came a calm, deep voice.

"Oh, Ludwig," Francis said. "How absolutely lovely to hear from you. Let me guess. You want some more advice on how to woo darling Feliciano."

"Well," Ludwig stammered, "we are sort of having a - a date tonight, so - "

"Alright, I've got some excellent advice," Francis said. "Get a pen and paper. Write this down, this is fucking gold."

There was a rustling on the other end, and the thought of Ludwig actually taking notes was enough to bring a slight smile to Francis' face.

"Don't even fucking think about sleeping with him," he continued. "Just take it slow. Don't try to get him into your bed. Kiss at most. Be a gentleman."

"But - "

"If you fuck him before he's ready, he'll hate you. Or, he might not even let you get that far. If he so much as suspects you have less than honorable intentions he'll run for the hills. And you'll be alone for the rest of your life, wondering where the fuck you went wrong and what the fuck you did to deserve this."

"I - "

"Take it from someone who fucking knows, alright. Just trust me. Don't try to have sex with him. It could ruin everything you've been working toward."

* * *

Ludwig was more than anxious about this date. Francis had told him to be a gentleman, not to lay a hand on Feliciano, but Ludwig wasn't sure he could help himself. He'd already spent years not laying a hand on his friend; surely all that time wasted had to amount to something? Surely he deserved _something _by now?

Nonetheless, he decided to stick with Francis' advice. The last thing he wanted was to frighten Feliciano off forever, so he was going to play it safe. No matter how much that pained him.

So here he was, running around his house anxiously and making sure everything was set up just right for when Feliciano arrived. Dinner - pasta, the Italian's favorite - was simmering on the stove, the table was set, the candles were lit, the gentle, romantic music was flowing softly from the living room speakers, and all of Ludwig's notes and lists from the past several days were folded neatly. He was utterly and completely ready.

...Or so he thought, until Feliciano walked in the door.

The younger man's face was flushed pink and gleaming with sweat, his hair partially swept back from his sticky forehead, his lips parted and huffing out short pants. His white, slightly damp dress shirt was halfway unbuttoned, and the moment Ludwig let him in the house Feliciano was reaching down to undo his pants as well.

"Ludwig," he gasped. "I need to change. Now."

"Feliciano - I - why - " sputtered Ludwig. "Why are you - what happened?"

"Lovino had the car keys and he still wasn't home, and the buses weren't running, and I forgot my wallet so I couldn't get a taxi, and I thought I would be late so I ran here, all the way, and oh, it's too hot. Let me change." Without another word, Feliciano stripped off his pants and tossed them away. In another few seconds he'd done away with the shirt as well, and was standing, sweating, panting, nearly naked, mere inches from Ludwig.

"Get dressed," Ludwig managed stiffly, his hands balled at his sides, a drop of sweat trickling down his temple. He wanted nothing more than to sweep the younger man away to the bedroom and ravish that perfect white skin, taste those rosy pink lips - but Francis had told him not to do that just yet, and he was blindly trusting the years of experience of the Frenchman to lead him well.

Even if it was really, really difficult.

"I don't want to get dressed," Feliciano whined, moving closer still. "It's so hot . . ."

"You will get dressed now so we can eat the dinner I prepared for us or so help me I am kicking you out of this house!" Ludwig thundered. "Do you know how much effort I put into preparing this? Do you know how long I've waited?"

Feliciano put on some clothes and they ate dinner after that, but the mood was ruined. They hardly spoke two words over dinner, and Feliciano practically fled as soon as the meal was over. Ludwig didn't get so much as a kiss.

* * *

Feliciano was not feeling his best. He'd finally managed to secure a date with his longtime crush, had thought he'd be losing his virginity at long last - and now this had to happen.

But it was weird, because he could have sworn that Ludwig liked him back.

All those lingering glances, searing touches, those blushes, stutters, and smiles - surely they had meant that Feliciano's feelings were reciprocated? Yet Ludwig had stoutly refused his every advance. It was just plain depressing.

And that was how he'd ended up here, curled up under a blanket on Francis' couch, attending the two-man, pants-optional pity party hosted by the Frenchman.

"Ah, but what was I expecting?" Francis slurred.

"_I _was expecting to get laid," Feliciano grumbled.

"I had no right to hope - that bastard . . . that _tease _. . . it's all his fault," Francis said bitterly. He took yet another gulp of wine. "Drink, Feli?"

"Just a little," Feliciano said. He was determined not to get drunk, as being drunk, alone, and without pants in Francis's apartment could only end badly. In fact, being in Francis's apartment in general was not always a wise idea. But Feliciano was not a wise man, and besides, in his current predicament, he felt he had nowhere else to go.

"Oh, Feli," Francis sighed, shaking his head. "We are fools for believing in the power of seduction."

"I only believed in it because Antonio told me to," was Feliciano's reply, but Francis continued on as though he had not heard.

"We are idiots! Stupid, stupid, stupid. And so I told the kraut, I told him he must exercise restraint. I told him, you can't do anything without them thinking you'll be gone in the morning. They think you're trying to have a one night stand, when really you just maybe want to be held, want to be loved . . ." Here Francis trailed off into incoherent sobs.

"Oh, it's alright," Feliciano said soothingly, rubbing gentle circles into the older man's shoulder blades. "You're very drunk, though, aren't you?"

Francis gave a slight jerk of his head, which Feliciano took to be a nod.

"There, there," Feliciano cooed, enjoying his role as the responsible one for once. Then something Francis had said registered in his mind. "Wait, so what were you saying about Ludwig?"

"Well, I told him, I said, 'Don't you even think about sleeping with him.' And now he is well armed for the future and maybe the stupid potato head will have better luck than me in love."

"You told him not to sleep with me?" Feliciano gasped, horrified.

"Of course," Francis said, looking both deeply insulted and thoroughly inebriated. "Of course I did, what do you take me for, a fool?"

"So it's your fault he wouldn't touch me!" Feliciano cried accusingly. "Not mine!"

"It was out of love, darling," Francis mumbled, but Feliciano was already halfway out the door, sprinting to Ludwig's house.

* * *

Ludwig did not consider himself a quitter, but he was having considerable difficulty deciding how to proceed in his plan to win Feliciano. He examined the problem from every angle and arrived at the conclusion that he had but one, final option. He had to tell the truth. After all, where had playing games gotten him? Trying to be subtle, trying to be cool - it had accomplished nothing. It was time to honestly tell Feliciano everything and have faith that the younger man would feel the same way.

And if he didn't - well, Ludwig wasn't going to think about that just yet.

Just as Ludwig made his mind up, the doorbell rang. He went to answer it annoyed, assuming it was his brother. Ludwig had asked Gilbert to spend a night away so he could have the house to himself, and Gilbert had replied that he had a date with Elizaveta and wouldn't be back until morning anyway. But it was now late afternoon and there was still no sign of him, and try as he might to deny it, Ludwig was the tiniest bit worried about his older brother.

"Finally!" he said loudly as he opened the door.

"Finally what?" asked a confused Feliciano.

"Oh - you!" Ludwig said, startled. He blushed, embarrassed by his attire - he hadn't bothered to put on more than a T-shirt and boxers today. And, looking at Feliciano, he realized that the Italian was pants-less as well.

"It's me, yes," Feliciano said nervously. "Can I come in?"

"Of course," Ludwig said automatically, ushering him into the house and closing the door behind him. "Actually, I was going to ask you to come over tonight anyways. I have to tell you something."

"I have to tell _you _something!" Feliciano said, his eyes wide. "Can I go first?"

"Well, if you want to," Ludwig said. "Um - let me go put on some pajama pants, though . . . do you want some?"

"No," Feliciano said insistently. "Don't put on pants, just listen to me."

Taken aback by the younger man's firmness, Ludwig just nodded.

"You might think I'm stupid and naive, and sometimes that might be true." Feliciano took a deep breath. "But I at least know enough to know that I really like you and I want to be with you. I'm not delicate. You don't have to worry about scaring me away. Francis told me that he told you not to sleep with me, and that was stupid advice."

"Well - " Ludwig stuttered. "That was - I was asking because - "

"It was stupid," Feliciano continued, reddening, "because I wanted to sleep with you, too."

Ludwig's mouth dropped open. "You did?"

"I asked Antonio what I should do," Feliciano went on, his voice dropping almost to a whisper, "if I wanted to make you my boyfriend and make sure you would never leave me. And he said I should seduce you, and he told me how. And so - "

"So you knew what you were doing to me!" Ludwig groaned. "You knew you were being a tease!"

"Yeah," Feliciano admitted. "But you still would never touch me! And I wondered why . . . and know I know . . . "

"Okay," Ludwig said. "I'm glad we've cleared up that misunderstanding."

There was an awkward pause.

"So now what?" Feliciano asked.

"I don't know," Ludwig said. He scratched his head. "Um, do you - that is - are you still, uh, interested in sleeping with me?"

Feliciano beamed. "Yes!"

Ludwig grinned mischievously - it was an expression Feliciano rarely saw on his face, and the Italian decided he rather liked it there. "Then what are we waiting for?"

* * *

It wasn't often that Gilbert came home to the sight of his younger brother having sex on the living room couch. In fact, this was the first time Ludwig had ever had sex, ever, to Gilbert's knowledge. He smirked to himself as he snuck past the oblivious couple and into the kitchen.

"Way to go, West," he murmured, heading for the fridge to grab a cold beer. Then he froze, wrinkling his nose. "Oh, God, is that - ?"

It was. Apparently the insatiable lovers had come to the kitchen before hitting the living room, because there was a sticky white substance dripping from one of the counters. Glancing around in horror, Gilbert realized that there was also rather a lot of whipped cream scattered around the room, as well as traces of chocolate syrup.

"Kinky," he muttered, backing out of the kitchen. Maybe he'd skip the beer. Anyway, he'd only come home to pack up some clothes. He headed up the back stairs to his bedroom, which might have been a pig sty but at least didn't have cum spattered on any of its surfaces.

Or so he thought.

When he arrived in his room, he found the covers of his bed rumpled and the sheets stained. The whole place stank of sex.

"Great," he moaned, throwing clothes viciously into a duffel bag. "Just great! Thanks a bunch, West."

He was happy for his brother, he really was. It was fantastic that Ludwig and Feliciano were finally getting it on.

But did they have to do it in _Gilbert's _room?

As Gilbert moved throughout the rest of the upstairs, he found similar scenes of destruction in Ludwig's bedroom, in the bathroom, and even in the laundry room.

"Well," he told himself, shaking his head as he tiptoed out the back door, "at least I'm moving out this week."

He made his way back to the street, where Elizaveta had parked her car. She was bobbing her head along to some heavy metal station, and looked up expectantly when Gilbert emerged from the backyard with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a look of of exasperation on his face.

"What's new with Ludwig?" she asked as he plopped into the passenger seat.

"Oh, not much," Gilbert said. "He and Feliciano are just having crazy monkey sex all over the house."

"WHAT?" Elizaveta shrieked. "Right now? I have to see this!"

"Hey," Gilbert objected, alarmed. "No, you don't. Wouldn't you rather just go home and have crazy monkey sex with this hot piece of Prussian ass?"

She snorted. "When are you going to realize that you're not half as sexy as you think you are?"

"That's not what you were saying last night," Gilbert said with a smirk.

"Well," Elizaveta said, flushing.

"Or this morning," he continued.

"That was - "

"Or right after lunch." He grinned cockily. "And it's not what you'll be saying when we get home and have crazy monkey sex all over your husband's expensive dining room table."

"You are so full of it," Elizaveta said, rolling her eyes. But she started the car anyway.

After all, with the promise of crazy monkey sex in her immediate future, she figured she could deal with a little arrogance.

* * *

**a/n:** bad chapter is bad, lol. but at least it's an update! after what, like a year? orz i'm sorry. probably no one will even read this. but if you are still reading this fic, thank you! i know my writing style has changed a bit, but i tried to keep this chapter consistent with the others. though it's not totally proofread. anyways i promise it's not over. and francis and arthur's story will be resolved! eventually. but in the next bit, alfred/ivan will be the main focus hehehe. it'll probably be short. maybe 2 chapters. because i'm eager to get to the asian countries xD

bahaha too many author's notes. i'll stop now.


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